The Last Time I Saw Sammy
by RaisingAmara
Summary: When a hidden hex bag forces a young Dean to abandon his 16-year-old brother in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, the guilt may be his undoing. But with Bobby's help and a trail of cell phone messages, can the two hunters find their way back to the youngest Winchester?
1. Chapter 1

When Bobby unexpectedly landed his solid right hook, Dean fell back against the kitchen table. That's when the broken slat from the wooden chair caught and ripped the lining of Dean's leather jacket, and the hex bag fell out.

Time suddenly stopped as they both stared at the offensive object lying there on the faded floorboards of Bobby's kitchen – a small black pouch filled with an evil combination of herbs and sundries – odorless, weightless, and completely undetectable until now. Suddenly, Dean's odd behavior made sense.

For Bobby, it was an epiphany that brought instant relief – finally there was a reason why Dean had been such a dick these last few months.

For Dean, the feeling was far less comforting. As soon as the innocuous-looking little pouch left his jacket, the spell was instantly broken. A feeling of immense dread and loss rolled over him in a crushing wave, making it hard to breathe and forcing tears to his eyes. He looked up at Bobby from where he knelt on his knees in the kitchen and uttered a single, agonized sentence, disbelievingly.

"Bobby, what have I done?"

The wounded tone in his voice was all it took for Bobby's anger to leave him like helium exiting a popped balloon. It took a lot for the jaded hunter to break down, but the thought of the torment that awaited the 20-year-old man that Bobby had come to think of as family was enough.

"Dean …"

"Oh, my God, Bobby." Dean stared up at him in agony. "Sammy."

Bobby reached a hand down to help Dean to his feet, "We'll find him." He told the man who stood, shaking and unsteady, before him. He pulled him into a rough hug and offered what comfort he could, "We'll find him, I promise."

As Bobby released him, Dean sank bonelessly into the one unbroken chair left in the room. Bobby knelt down and scooped up the hateful hex bag and, with an angry grunt, tossed it into the fireplace. There was a soft, "whoosh" as the thing burst into flames. Bobby turned to look at his adopted nephew. Dean's face was the color of chalk, his expression resembling that of an accident victim who had just been through more than his injured body could assimilate, and Bobby was suddenly sure he was going into shock. He grabbed the blanket from the couch and draped it gently over Dean's shoulders. He poured a glass of whiskey and set it in front of the younger man.

"Drink up, Dean."

Uncomprehending green eyes drifted upward, "What?"

Bobby tapped the glass on the table, "Drink." He said. "It'll help."

Dean wordlessly lifted the glass and tossed it back, following directions. He set the glass back down as his eyes welled up. He looked up at the older man pleadingly, "How long has it been?" He asked as if dreading the answer.

"Dean …"

"How long, Bobby?" He pleaded.

"About eight months, I think."

The tears overflowed then, and drifted unnoticed down Dean's face.

"Eight months," he repeated.

"He's a smart kid, Dean. He's fine, I'm sure of it."

"He's 16, Bobby. He's 16, and I just left him alone in that shithole motel in Pennsylvania. I didn't even make sure he had money. I just bolted."

Bobby looked away then, trying not to imagine what that must have been like for Sam.

"I … I told him I was sick of playing big brother. That I wanted a life of my own now. I told him he was on his own."

"Dean …"

The younger man pleaded with Bobby, "Why did I do that?"

"It was the spell, Dean."

"I remember … I remember Sammy panicking … begging me to take him along. He thought I was kidding at first, but then … he realized … Oh, God, Bobby ... trash can!"

Bobby was swift in grabbing the small trash can that sat next to the sink and scooting it toward Dean, who began heaving instantly.

The older man looked away, the grief he was feeling written all over his face. Sam was the sensitive Winchester – the one everyone looked after. He didn't have Dean's killer instinct or his father's hardened ways. Sam was just … Sam … quiet, unassuming, and with that instant ability to comfort anyone who was hurting. Thinking about him alone, abandoned by the one person who meant everything to him, who had looked after him all his life, was a tough realization to have. Suddenly Bobby wasn't so sure that Sam was okay after all. He was so young, and still too trusting – even after being raised by hunters. There was just something about Sam that attracted people who wanted to take advantage. Dean had always been there to protect his younger brother, but without that … Bobby wasn't so sure at all that Sam would make it on his own. But he'd be damned if he'd share his worries with Dean. The boy was beating himself up enough already.

"Tell me what happened, boy." Bobby said.

"What?"

"What happened that last night? Walk me through it."

Dean shuddered as he thought back to the last time he had seen his baby brother …


	2. Tell Me How You Really Feel

Dean unlocked the door to the seedy motel room and stepped inside, slamming it unceremoniously behind him. The noise caused Sam to wake instantly. He crouched on the bed, knife in hand, glaring sleepily toward the cause of the disturbance.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, it's just me, Sam. Sorry."

"Where've you been?"

Dean suddenly felt unusually annoyed at the question, and he wasn't sure why. It would be a simple thing to explain to Sam that he'd been blowing off steam at the bar two blocks down, but for some reason, explaining anything to anyone suddenly made him feel pissed.

"What's it to you?" He barked. "I'm an adult."

Sam looked hurt. "I was worried."

Dean snorted, "Looks to me like you were watching the backs of your eyelids."

Sam stared at him for a moment, and then relaxed. He shoved the knife back under his pillow and flopped back down on the bed. "Whatever." He answered, turning to face the wall.

"Really, Sam?" Dean continued. "You're really going to pout now?"

Sam rolled back over and looked at his brother. "What's wrong with you?"

"Ain't nothing wrong with me that a backhand across your face wouldn't cure." He answered.

Sam looked shocked, "What?"

"What?" Dean mocked his brother cruelly and found himself with a face full of holy water.

"What the hell, Sam!" He barked.

"Christo." Sam replied.

"You're an ass." Dean said, and knocked the flask from his brother's hand. I'm not possessed, little brother. I'm just pissed."

Sam just stared.

Dean stared back, suddenly livid. "Why the hell do I put up with you anyway?"

"Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean thought about the question before answering. "You, I think." He said, and silently reveled in the hurt look on his brother's face.

"What did I do?" Sam questioned quietly, "I've been here all night, wondering where you were. You didn't answer your phone."

"Because you're not my father, Sam. I don't have to check in with you every freaking minute of every freaking day."

Sam flinched at the mention of the elder Winchester, and deep inside, Dean found that delightful. "Dad's probably dead, you know." He added for spite.

Sam's eyes flared, "Don't say that." he spit out.

"Why else would he not answer his phone for months at a time? How many messages have you left him, Sam? Don't you think he would call you back if he could?"

Sam sank quietly back down onto the musty mattress, "Dad's just working. He'll call when he can."

"Yeah, okay. You keep telling yourself that."

Sam covered his eyes with an arm. "You're a dick, Dean."

Dean chuckled, "Well, that's been said before." He answered, sitting down on the edge of his own bed. He silently studied the boy in the bed next to him. Damn, Sam was such a pain in his ass – always whining about being worried, always asking where he thought Dad was, always demanding more than Dean was able to give. Dean's little brother was sucking the life right out of him, and Dean didn't know how much more of it he could take.

"Sometimes, I hate you Sammy." He said softly.

But Sam heard him anyway. He looked over at Dean with eyes full of questions that Dean couldn't answer.

"I really mean it. Sometimes I could just punch the living hell right out of you."

Sam looked away, expressive eyes filled with sudden tears.

"You're such a drain on me. I don't think I can take another day of playing big brother to your needy ass."

"Whatever you say, Dean." Sam replied, muffled. "You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk. How the hell could I be drunk? I have to stay sober to take care of you."

Sam remained silent.

"Hell, I'd love to go on a bender, but I can't, can I? Sammy might need a bowl of cereal or a freaking Tylenol."

"Shut up."

"You shut up. You just ..." Dean continued. "You're the one who can't go ten minutes without whining. Damn! I'm so sick of your whiny-assed ways. Sometimes I want to kill myself just to get away from the sound of your obnoxious voice droning on and on and on."

Sam turned away toward the wall and remained silent, but Dean could see his shoulders shaking, and he loved every minute of it.

"Are you crying, Sammy?" He taunted. "You should be. You sure as hell make me feel like crying every fucking day of my fucking life. I could actually have an existence if it wasn't for you, you know."

Sam pulled the covers over his head.

"Oh come on," Dean continued, "You're a big boy. You can take the truth. The truth is I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of a moody 16-year-old controlling my life and telling me what I can and can't do. You know what I was doing when I was 16? Hunh? I was raising your sorry ass, that's what. I sure didn't have anyone to whine to when I wanted a little attention." He was on a roll now. "I didn't have a girlfriend because I had a 12-year-old brother who needed me to wipe his fucking nose. I didn't have a job because I couldn't leave you alone for two minutes without you finding trouble or it finding you. When I was 16, I was a grown-up, a full-fledged father of a fucking tweenager. I couldn't afford the luxury of whining. You just have no idea."

Sam exploded from the bed, "So why do you do it then!" He towered over his irate brother. "Who told you to do it? I can get along just fine without you if you hate me so much!"

Dean snorted cruelly, "Yeah, right. Like that could happen."

"You suck, Dean!" Sam struggled to sound fierce, but the tears and the snot and the broken voice betrayed him.

"Crybaby. You have snot dripping off your nose. "

Sam flushed pink and swiped at his offending nose with his sleeve. He glared at his brother for a moment before stomping off to the bathroom and slamming the door.

Dean grinned gleefully and stood up. He felt empowered. Telling Sam the truth was liberating, and the sudden urge to pack his duffle overwhelmed him. After all, Sam had told him to go. He'd just given Dean the green light to do that one thing he'd wanted to do for years – ditch his pain-in-the-ass little brother and go have an actual life.

"I believe I will, Sammy." Dean whispered happily, grabbing at the odd assortment of things in the room that belonged to him. He stuffed the odds and ends into the duffle. "I really think I will."


	3. Left Behind

Moments later, Sam watched as Dean moved around the room, picking up things here and there and stowing them in his duffle.

Wordlessly, Sam moved to his bed and fished his own bag out from under. He began placing his belongings carefully inside.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked.

Sam stopped, looking confused, "I thought you were packing."

"I am."

He stood looking at Dean, confusion joining the mix of other emotions registering on his face, "So, we're leaving or not?"

Dean snorted, "Only one of us is leaving, baby bro."

"Oh, right. So you're just leaving me here."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Whatever you say, Dean." Sam replied, gathering up his favorite tee and dropping it in the bag.

"Believe me or not, Sam." Dean replied. "I am so done with your ass."

Sam shook his head and remained silent, continuing his recon mission around the room.

Dean finished, took a single last look around, and pulled his bag onto his shoulder. With his free hand, he grabbed the weapons bag. He opened the door and closed it behind him. Stowing both bags in the Impala's trunk, Dean returned to the room and watched Sam as he finished up. When his brother turned to face him, Dean held out his hand.

"I guess this is it Little Bro," he said, offering his hand.

Sam just looked at him blankly. "What are you doing?"

"Shake?"

Sam sighed and shook Dean's hand. "How far are you going to take this, Dean?" he scowled. "I don't even know what you're mad about, but it's getting old."

"Oh, I'm not kidding, Sammy. I'm getting the hell out."

Sam began to look nervous. "And I'm what? Staying here?"

"You can stay til tomorrow. You're paid up til then. Check out is 11 am."

Sam shifted from foot to foot. "And then what? You come back for me after I've learned whatever lesson it is you're trying to teach me?"

Dean smiled, "Oh, I'll be hell and gone by 11 am, Sammy."

Sam just shook his head and moved for the door, but Dean snaked out an arm, blocking his advance. "What the hell, Dean!" Sam yelled, "Knock it off, already!"

"I told you Sam, there's no way in hell you're getting in my car. Not tonight. Not ever again."

Sam's eyes shone a little too brightly as he stood looking at his brother. And as Dean stared back, he felt strangely detached. He knew he'd normally be a sucker for a teary-eyed Sammy, but somehow all he could feel at the moment was a touch of revulsion. It was like he didn't even recognize the kid standing in front of him, and he couldn't get away fast enough.

"Well, take care," He said, moving to open the driver's side door of the Impala.

Sam darted forward and grabbed his brother's sleeve at the wrist. "What are you trying to do Dean, scare me? Well it worked. I'm scared, okay? Is that what you want to hear? Do you want me to beg you to take me with you?"

Dean rolled his eyes, "Wow, way to take it like a man, Sam."

Sam just stared, blinking rapidly. "Fine. I guess I'm begging then. Does that make you feel better, Dean?"

Dean snarled and wrenched his arm away. "Dammit, get away from me, Sam. I'm done!"

Finally, Sam took a step back. He released his brother's arm and stood staring silently, tears not quite finding their release. Dean took advantage of the moment to slide behind the wheel and turn the key. As the engine roared to life, Dean backed away from the motel, away from his brother, and away from the only life he'd ever known. He glanced back once in the rear view mirror at Sam as he stood on the curb, hunched forward with his duffle on his shoulder and the brisk October wind blowing raggedly through his hair.


	4. Saved Messages

Dean sat horrified, staring into Bobby's equally wide eyes. "That's how I left him, Bobby."

"Dean, I don't …" Bobby started, then cleared his throat and tried again, "I … so … that's why you wouldn't tell me where Sam's been all this time? That's why you said he was staying with friends?"

"I guess. Maybe. I don't know." He answered miserably. "All this time I've been looking for Dad, and I just forgot that I threw Sammy away? How could I have done that? What's wrong with me?"

"A spell is a powerful thing, Dean."

"I left him alone on the other side of the country, Bobby!"

"Didn't he ever try to call you? I know he never called me."

"I don't know." Dean said and began frantically searching his pockets. He found his phone and flipped it open. "I don't have any missed calls." He said mournfully.

Bobby stood up and moved to stand behind Dean, peering over his shoulder at the phone. "But you have 18 saved calls? What's that about?"

"What? I never save calls. I listen to 'em and delete 'em." Dean hit the button to listen to the last archived call and put it on speaker. It was dated for three weeks earlier. The voice That Dean hadn't heard in close to a year suddenly filled the room. He would have known it anywhere.

" _Hey Dean … I know I promised I wouldn't call again, but I'm pretty drunk, so … why the hell not, right? I'm still in Kankakee, man, just sitting here on a park bench … downing some long necks and watching the sun go down over the river. It's pretty nice, but it's sad too. I always wanted to have a beer with you, man. The things you never know you're gonna miss, you know? I hope we get that … chance someday. Tomorrow … I'm pulling out and heading … somewhere. I'm not sure where. I can't seem to connect with anyone from the old life, so maybe that's a sign that I'm not supposed to be doing … you know … what I'm doing. I just wanted to let you know that I realize all the sacrifices you made for me over the years, man, and that I really do appreciate them. And I'm sorry I got tossed in your lap … when you were just a kid and that you had to give up so much to look out for me. I hope I get the chance to pay you back someday, Dean … I really do. Anyway, hoping for a call from you every day is just more than I can do anymore, so I'm ditching this phone and cutting the ties, you know? So you can take me off the plan now. Thanks for keeping me on there this long, by the way. I sort of hope that you at least … listen to my messages before you delete them, even if you never call me back. I'd like you to know that I'm okay, even if you have cut me loose. Take care of yourself, man, and find some happy, Dean. You deserve it. I miss you, big brother."_

Dean looked at Bobby in horror. "Sam's 16! He can't be drunk-calling me from a freaking park bench!"

"Well, technically, he's 17 now, right? And at least we know where he is, or was three weeks ago."

Dean stared, "Right." He said. "Where the hell is Kankakee?"

Bobby thought for a minute, " I want to say Illinois. Dean? You okay?"

"He sounds like he's a hundred years old, Bobby." Dean said softly. "That doesn't even sound like Sam." He hit the call-back button on the message and listened to the canned voice explain that there was no one to take the call. When the beep sounded, words just gushed forward like there was no stopping them.

"Sammy! Sammy, it's me. I'm so sorry, Sammy. It was a damn hex bag. But I'm out from under the spell now, and I'm with Bobby, and we're coming, okay? Please call me back. Please still have this stupid phone and call me back! We're coming, Sam. I promise."

Dean hung up and hit the next archived message.

" _So, hey. Sorry we missed each other at the lodge. Maybe I should have come and looked you up, but I just couldn't find the courage, you know? You're looking real good, Dean. I was really hoping you'd stop by my room or at least call me, but it's cool, I guess. I saw you heading out. It was good to see that you're doing okay. I guess I've finally come to terms with the fact that Dad's gone. I know he'd call me back if he could. And watching you drive away … again … was pretty brutal, but I realize now that you really have made your choice. I'll stop calling, Dean, but I'll always miss you. You can call me anytime you want –day or night, it doesn't matter. I'll pick up if I see it's you. I'll always be your brother, you know, even if you don't need me so much anymore. Take care, Dean. I miss you, man."_

"What's he talking about, Dean? What lodge?"

"I don't know."

"It sounds like he actually saw you out somewhere."

Dean and Bobby stared at each other. "He sounds so … defeated." Dean said.

"Play the next one."

" _Hey Dean. Guess what? I'm here at the Red Deer Lodge, and I'm parked next to you in the lot. I got my driver's license and everything. Of course, it's still under my fake ID, but what the hell, Sam Jovani is a decent enough driver – for an Italian dude. The Impala's looking good, man. I couldn't resist parking my Mustang next to you, although she looks pretty sad by comparison. What do you think? I got her for a song. I know she's not a Chevy, but I gotta be my own man, you know? I won't come knocking on your door unless I hear from you, okay? But you know, today is my birthday - the big 1 - 7, right? And I can't think of any better way to spend it than with my big brother. I promise – no whining. I don't want to be a pest, but I confess I finally screwed up the courage to call the cell company and have them tag your GPS for me. I wasn't so far away, so I thought maybe we could meet up and talk over old times. I have some things to tell you about the hunts I've been doing, and I got a new .45 that's pretty slick. I'm in room 116. Hope to see you soon."_

Dean stood up and launched a kick into the already broken kitchen chair. Then, for good measure, he punched a hole in Bobby's drywall next to the door.

"His birthday, Bobby." He said brokenly. "He was right there. That was that hunt in Scottsburg. We holed up at the Red Deer Lodge - that blue Mustang parked right beside us, remember? I noticed it because whoever owned it had it all shined up even though it looked like shit with rust and holes all over." That was May 2nd, and I didn't even make the connection."

"And Sam's hunting now?"

"What?"

"He said he wanted to tell you about the hunts he's been doing."

"He can't hunt! He's fucking 17! And he's all alone!"

"Well apparently somebody forgot to tell him that, Dean."

"Dammit!"

" _Hi Dean. I wish I knew if you were okay. The more times I call, the more it feels like maybe it's less that you won't call me back and more like you can't. Please just let me know you're okay, man? I've given up on the idea of heading to Bobby's. I made it to Kankakee and found a job waiting tables. It pays a lot more than the bar in Elwood ever did, and I'm hoping to get an apartment soon. If things keep looking up, maybe I'll even buy an old beater, and you can customize it for me if you want. I miss the Impala, and I miss having someone to talk to. It feels like I haven't talked to anyone in ages. I've been doing a couple hunts here and there – kind of hoping to run into somebody who knows you or Dad and who can fill me in, but so far, nothing. I really hope you're okay, Dean. I miss you, man. Call me."_

"He was coming here?" Bobby grumbled. "Why didn't he just call me? I'd have driven out to get him?"

"He got a job. Two jobs. Go Sammy." Dean replied softly.

" _Hi Dean, it's Sam. I tried to steal a car last night, but it didn't work out too well. I guess I should have made sure the owner wasn't hanging nearby, grabbing a smoke. At least he didn't call the cops. He just beat the crap out of me instead. I'm feeling pretty low right now, Dean. If you'd call me, it would make all the difference in the world. I sure could use a friendly voice, you know? The bar where I was working folded up pretty much overnight, and the lady who owned it just packed up and left. I might try to work up my courage to steal another car, but I'm not sure I have it in me. I think I have enough money to catch the bus to Kankakee. That's probably what I'll do. Man, I miss you, Dude. Call me sometime, okay?"_

"I'm not going to survive this, Bobby. I'm just not." Dean rested his head in his hands. "Some guy beat him up. He lost his job, and he gave up trying to get here."

"He's hanging in there though, Dean. Hell of a resourceful kid."

"All he wanted was for me to call him back. I don't even remember saving his calls. I had no idea he was calling me. I never listened to a single message. If I did, I don't remember."

"Well, don't beat yourself up for that. That was the spell working its charms."

"It's like I forgot I had a brother at all."

" _Hey Dean … Just wanted to … ch-check in and let you know I'm okay. I got the vamp without getting too b-banged up in the process. I think I broke a rib and it's a little hard to br-breathe, but other than that, all is well. I wrapped it up, and it should be fine in a few days. I miss hanging out with you after a hunt and having you fuss over me, but I guess that was one of the things you grew to hate, so I try not to think about it too much. If you happen to be in the area, I'm still in Elwood and still working at the bar. I'll set you up if you st-stop by … anyway … I miss you. Talk to you later."_

The two seasoned hunters exchanged a haunted look, as Dean skipped right to the next message.

" _Hey Dean. I've been thinking about some of the things you said, and you're right. It is time for me to grow up and take some responsibility. There's some weird stuff going on around here, and I'm pretty sure it's a vampire thing. So tonight, I'm going hunting. Don't worry about me. I still have the knife you gave me, and I earned a little extra money working overtime last week so I bought a machete from the pawn shop down the street. So anyway, tonight I'm going hunting for the first time by myself. I just … I feel this need to make you and Dad proud. I'll let you know how it goes. Miss you. Call me."_

"How many more are there?" Bobby asked.

Dean looked, "A lot."

" _Hi Dean. Checking in again. I should probably stop bugging you, but I can't seem to make myself do it. I got a job as a bartender here in Elwood. I had to lie a little, but I still had that fake ID you made me get. So if you're ever in the area, stop by Lil's Grill and I'll set you up with a tab. It'd be great to see you again, Dean. I miss you. Call me."_

"Lil's Grill?" Bobby and Dean asked in unison, exchanging a look.

" _Hi Dean, it's Sam. I'm just checking in to let you know I'm still alive. I'm not sure if you really care at this point, but on the off-chance … I'm in Indiana. I ran out of money so I'm trying to find a job around here somewhere. If you give a shit, I'm in Union City. Call me if you want."_

"Now he just sounds pissed." Bobby noted.

"Can you blame him?"

" _Hi Dean. It's me again. I can't get hold of Dad or you or anybody. I don't have Bobby's number programmed into my phone, and he's not listed anywhere. Maybe you can call me back and leave his number on my voicemail even? I'm so pissed at you, but I'm getting a little desperate here. I have five dollars to my name, and I'm starving. Call me."_

"When was that?" Bobby asked.

Dean checked the date. "About a week or so after I bailed on him."

" _Hey Dean, I'm in Ohio. I have no idea where I'm going. I guess I'm heading for Bobby's. I guess you really meant what you said, and that makes me feel like shit. I'm sorry I had no idea that things were like that for you. I'm still royally pissed, but if you give me another chance, I'll do a better job at pulling my own weight, I promise. I wish you'd call so we could talk things out."_

" _Dean, shit. I'm tired. I've been walking for damn days, and my feet are killing me. I hate you, you jerk. This is pretty shitty."_

" _You're an asshole, Dean. You know that right? I'm fucking never speaking to you again, you creep."_

"You tell 'im, Sam." Bobby breathed.

Dean shot him a look full of daggers, "Something you want to say, old man?"

"Who me? Not a thing. Play the next one already."

" _Dean, you better fucking be dead. I'm fucking freezing out here. Call me back, jerk."_

Bobby walked away, stifling what sounded suspiciously like a snicker as Dean glared at him from the table.

" _Dean, I'm so fucking pissed at you I can hardly talk. This is the shittiest thing you've ever done. Dad's so going to kick your ass when he finds out you just dumped me here in Shitsburg, USA. And I'm not going to stand up for you either. I'll LET him kick your ass. I might even help. He's not taking my calls either. I can't get hold of anyone and it's damn cold out here. I had to leave the motel or they were going to arrest me for loitering. I'm on the road about ten miles out. Come get me, you asshole."_

" _Dean, where are you? I'm still here at the motel. I had to check out this morning. I'm trying to hang out here to wait for you, but the manager just told me I can have two more hours and then I have to move along or he's calling the cops. There's a creepy dude hanging around the picnic area, and he keeps trying to make conversation. Call me back and let me know where you are."_

" _Dean, why won't you take my calls? I'm sorry, all right? I don't even know what I did, but I don't want to stay here by myself all night. It's creepy here. It's out in the middle of nowhere. There's not even a damn McDonald's nearby. It's not funny anymore. I'm starting to feel panicky again. Please call me back."_

Dean paused and ran his hand through his hair. He looked up at Bobby through eyes that revealed sheer misery.

"That it?" Bobby asked.

"One more," Dean answered, and hit "play message." The last one was Sam in full-blown panic mode. It was the first call he'd made after Dean had left him standing on the curb. Looking at the time of the message, Dean estimated that it was made less than an hour after he'd deserted his brother.

" _Dean? Dean, please answer the phone. I don't know why you're so angry with me or what I did, but whatever it was, I'm sorry, all right? Please don't leave me here all alone. I hate it here. I've learned my lesson, okay? No more whining. I promise to God. I'll never ask you for anything again if you'll just come back and get me. Please, please come back. Please call me. Please Dean. I think I'm gonna die here and no one's ever gonna know what happened to me."_

Dean placed the phone on the table and sat with his head in his hands. Bobby patted him on the shoulder once and then walked away to give the grieving boy some space. Dean waited a moment and then dialed the familiar number again. When it went directly to voicemail, he tried once more to explain himself the best way he could to the most important person in his life.


	5. New Town, New Start

Sam drifted to a stop in front of the old farmhouse and sat looking the place over. He liked what he saw. The house was obviously old but well cared for – far from pristine and with a lived-in look that just felt … right.

Off to the left stood an old barn that had been converted to a garage, and it was this that drew his attention. It was the reason he was here on the outskirts of Benton, IL, after all. He emerged from the Mustang, stretched his lanky form and grabbed the help-wanted sign from the front seat. He made his way slowly over to the man and boy – so obviously father and son - who stood talking over the engine well of a Hyundai. The older man looked up as Sam approached.

"Howdy." He said.

"Hey." Sam replied.

The man looked him over briefly, stopping at the sign in his hand, and smiled, "You here about the job?"

"Yes, Sir." Sam replied, holding out his hand.

The man stepped forward to accept the handshake and studied the boy before him. "Can I ask how old you are?"

While he could have easily lied, Sam felt the need to deal honestly with the man and his son, "I'm 17." He answered. "My name is Sam."

"Well, Sam," the man drawled, "It's nice to meet you. I'm Ron. This is my son, Danny."

Sam nodded toward the boy, who looked to be in his early 20s, "Danny."

The boy nodded back, "Sam." He said.

"You know anything about cars?" Ron asked.

Sam nodded, "I know everything my dad and older brother taught me." He replied. "I'll never be as good as either of them with an engine, but I can fix a lot of things."

Ron nodded, "Humility. I like that." He stepped back. "You wanna take a look?" He asked, motioning to the car that was open for inspection before him.

"Sure," Sam smiled, handing the help-wanted sign to Ron and stepping forward. "What are the symptoms?"

Well, the owner just brought her in," Danny offered. "Says she's hard to turn over. Doesn't start on the first try any more. Sometimes it takes 10 or 12 cranks to catch. After that, she runs fine."

Sam leaned over and looked in, "So it's just a problem at start up?"

"Yeah."

"Does he ever smell gas?"

Ron and Danny exchanged a look between them, Ron's mouth forming a smile. "As a matter of fact, he does." He offered.

Sam glanced around at battery cables, belts, and wires briefly - noting that everything looked operational - before offering up an opinion. "Fuel pump, maybe?"

"Maybe," Ron replied, smiling. "And which one is the fuel pump?"

Sam straightened up and smiled back, "Under the back seat, I'd guess."

Ron laughed out loud and clapped Sam on the back. "Good job, son." He said. "Looks like you got a job if you want it? Pays $17 an hour, if you got a place to stay or $15 an hour and you can stay in the room over the garage if you want."

Sam's eyes lit up, "I'll take the room, Sir." He said eagerly.

"Sounds like a plan," Ron said. "Good to have you aboard, Sam."

"It's good to have the offer, Sir. Thank you."

"You can call me Ron, if you want. "Sir" doesn't really fit too well with the jeans and flannels."

Sam smiled, "Thanks, Ron."

"No problem." He glanced over to where Sam was parked. "That your Mustang?"

Sam grinned, "It is." He couldn't help but feel pride whenever he thought about the classic muscle car that he knew had so much potential. "She doesn't look like much now, I know. But I have big plans for her."

Ron noticed the way Sam seemed to come alive at the mention of his car, and he liked what he saw. The boy had passion, and passion was always a good thing. "She's a nice one." He agreed. "Feel free to work on her here when you have down time." He offered. "Danny and I can lend a hand if we're not busy."

"Thanks!"

Ron looked wistful, "I love the old classics." He admitted, and Sam found himself suddenly sharing more information with a stranger than he normally would have.

"My brother drives a '67 Impala." He said absently. "Jet black. She's gorgeous. He calls her Baby."

Ron noticed the mournful tone when Sam spoke of his brother, and he wondered if something had happened to the boy. It was too soon to pry, however, and so he whistled in appreciation instead. "That's a nice one, too." He agreed.

Sam glanced over at his new boss. "Do we need to do any paperwork or anything?" He asked.

Ron clapped him on the shoulder again, "The only paperwork involved will be counting your cash every Friday, if that's agreeable to you?"

Sam secretly rejoiced. No paperwork meant not having to present Ron with a false ID. For some reason, Sam wanted to deal squarely with this man and his son. "Sounds great." He relaxed.

Why don't you go take a look at the room? It's right up the stairs there." He motioned to a dusty set of steps at the back of the garage. "Take today to get settled in if you want. You can start tomorrow bright and early – 8 am."

"Eight sounds good." Sam agreed, reaching for his duffle inside the car.

"Oh, Sam," Ron added, "what's your last name?"

Sam paused for just a brief moment before replying, "Winchester." He said, "Sam Winchester."


	6. Searching for Sam

Dean's frustration meter was pegging toward overload. Every route that he and Bobby had explored had come up a dead end, and ARC Mobile was the first disappointment. When Dean called to trace Sam's phone, there was no signal at all. According to the horrid woman on the other end of the line, whom Dean had fantasized about salting and burning a mere 10 minutes into the conversation, this revelation most likely meant that the phone had been destroyed. And when Bobby began calling in favors down the line, no one had run across a 17-year-old hunter who carried only a machete, a small hunting knife, and a slick .45. Bobby left strict orders that should anyone encounter Sam in the course of a hunt, he was to get an immediate heads up. But so far – no one had called in.

Dean had an old flame who still worked at the DMV check to see what she could bring up on a blue Mustang registered to Sam Jovani, but all that turned up was Sam's old address in Kankakee. Dean cursed his luck at Sammy's safe driving skills. After all, a speeding ticket or a parking violation would have given the two hunters a solid place to start. But no – Sammy had to be just as meticulous behind the wheel as Dean was impulsive. Bobby even had an in with the Social Security Administration and had an old hunting buddy run Sam's fake social for a current work address. But the last job on Sam's work history was the bar in Elwood. Whoever Sam had worked for in this town had paid him under the table.

It was these dead ends that brought the two to the town square in Kankakee, Illinois on a sweltering day in July.

"Damn, could it be any hotter?" Dean complained, pulling up to the last address he had for Sam and killing the engine.

"I don't see how." Bobby pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat away with a handkerchief. "Feels like the damn bowels of Hell."

Dean looked around at the red, white, and blue bunting that smothered seemingly every porch railing and at the hustle of happy families as they moved to gather near the grand pavilion that took up a large portion of the town square. "I don't think I've ever seen so many casserole dishes together in one place." He noted.

Bobby glanced out his window at a family of five – all dressed alike in matching flag motif. "These people really revel in their independence." He nodded toward the spectacle.

"Dean looked and flinched. "Oh, now they're just bragging." He agreed.

"That should be Sam's old building right there," He nodded toward a run-down brick disaster. "So, we just hit all the restaurants near here, I guess?"

"You start there." Bobby directed. "I'll go look up the old landlord. That's if we can find anyone to talk to in this madness. Maybe Sam left a forwarding address. You never know."

"Like it could be that easy." Dean snorted.

"Right." Bobby agreed. "We are dealing with a Winchester, after all. What was I thinking?"

Dean chuckled, "Right, again."

"You got the picture?"

"Yeah." Dean handed Bobby the flyer he'd had printed that featured Sam's most recent photo. It was a solid year out of date, but it was all they had. It was Sam's school photo from his junior year of high school in Virginia. Sam looked all of 15 years old. Beneath Sam's photo was simply the word, "Missing," followed by Dean's phone number. While Bobby had encouraged Dean to report Sam missing officially, Dean hadn't yet been able to bring himself to do it. Fake ID or not, Sam was still technically a minor. Dean didn't want to rock the legal boat where his little brother was concerned. Sam seemed to be making it okay out here on his own, and Dean didn't want to be responsible for tearing him away from a good life he'd created only to trap him in the nightmare of Child Protective Services. Maybe later, if Dean couldn't locate him on his own, he'd bring the police in, but only as a last resort.

Bobby took the photo, studying it. "Nobody's going to recognize him from this." He complained. "Who'd give a job or an apartment to this kid who looks like he's 12?"

"Yeah, well, it's all we have. So get on it, old man."

"Bite me, Dean." Bobby growled, struggling out of the Impala. "Need a damned can opener to get out of this thing." He pulled his hat back on and headed toward the apartment building.

"You leave Baby out of this!" Dean called indignantly behind him.

As Bobby headed off on his mission, Dean unfolded himself regretfully from the car and took a moment to pull his drenched tee shirt away from his sweating body. It felt like a blast furnace outside the vehicle, and Dean would never understand how anybody would willingly congregate outside in these temperatures – holiday or not. Fireworks after dark he could see. In fact, one of his best memories involved him and Sammy and fireworks one Fourth of July long ago. But just the thought of a community picnic under a blazing sun and filled with an assortment of hot dishes made him feel slightly nauseous. The whole damned town smelled like fried chicken, and Dean could feel his stomach beginning to churn. He needed an icy beer and a dark bar in the worst sort of way.

The first item on Dean's list, however, was a vegan sort of café right across the street from Sam's old apartment, and Dean noticed at least one teenage-type person waiting tables. He could just see the place drawing Sam in like a fly on honey. He crossed the street, avoiding the crush of Middle America heading in the other direction, and slapped the glass door open. Inside, it was positively frigid, and Dean stood still for a moment, basking in the sudden change in temperature.

"Hi!" A chirpy 20-something greeted him from behind the register.

Dean nodded and moved to take a seat at the juice bar. "Give me whatever is cold and wet." He ordered, taking a cursory glance at the overhead menu. Most of the offerings were combinations he'd never heard of, and he crossed his fingers that his drink would be minus the sea grass and algae crap.

"Here you go." She sat the glass in front of him with a smile. "You look like an apple-orange kind of guy."

"Apple-orange is perfect." Dean winked, relieved, and took a long draw on his straw. It was actually good, and he vowed to start paying more attention to Sam when he rambled on about this juice and bean curd stuff.

"So," Dean leaned in and flashed his brightest smile. "I'm looking for my brother. Maybe you can help me?"

"Sure," the girl shrugged.

"Tall guy, messy hair, lived across the street a few months back? Drove an old blue Mustang?"

"You mean Sam?"

Dean choked on his straw. "Yeah! Sam. You know him?"

"Not like know, know him. But I knew who he was. He rented a room from my aunt."

"The room across the street?" Dean asked, and she nodded. "You seen him lately?"

The girl twisted her hair, thinking. "I think the last time was a while ago. I think he left town in a hurry if you know what I mean."

Dean shook his head. "No, I don't."

"Some guys had beat him up. They were looking for him. He stopped in here to leave my aunt the rest of the rent money he owed her. I think he was afraid to go back to his apartment."

"Did he say why people were after him?"

She shook her head. "Sorry."

"Say where he was going, maybe?"

"Not to me."

Dean rose and tossed a few bills on the counter. "So his apartment … his stuff still there, you think?"

The girl nodded. "Aunt Jamie hasn't rented it out again yet. I think everything is in boxes now, but it's still up there. You taking it with you?"

"Not sure. Maybe." Dean winked. "Thanks for the info." He braced himself for the heat and shot out the door.

He had only just crossed the street when he heard Bobby calling to him. Dean looked up to see the older hunter leaning out a window on the third floor of the ancient brick monstrosity. "Up here," he motioned.

Dean took the steps two at a time, trying not to notice the smell and the size of the roaches that scattered in his wake. On the second floor landing, someone had vomited – several days ago by the look of things – and Dean's apple-orange drink suddenly struggled to claw its way back up and out.

By the time he reached the third floor hallway, his eyes were tearing. "Damn, Bobby." He gasped out, making his way to his old friend around an ancient mattress that leaned halfway against the wall. His boot caught a corner of the tattered material and dislodged a small mountain of used syringes that had been stuffed inside the springs.

"I know." Bobby said, standing in the doorway of Sam's old apartment. There was no landlady in sight, which was probably fortunate for her, Dean thought. He'd have been hard pressed not to tell her what he thought of her housekeeping skills.

Bobby clapped Dean on the shoulder as he approached and stepped aside to let the boy enter the room that had sheltered his brother not so very long ago.

Dean stopped in surprise. The difference between the hallway and the bright, tiny apartment was like night and day. The room smelled of lemon cleaner with a faint lingering trace of body wash. There were bright, white blinds at each window, and the floor was swept clean. Aside from the worn furniture that had obviously come with the place, the only other object in the room was a pathetically small stack of boxes piled alongside one wall. Dean squatted down in front of the first box and gently dislodged the flaps, peering inside.

The tears came fast and hard then, and Dean didn't even try to stop them.


	7. Good Times at Ritter's Garage

Sam pulled his goggles off and rocked back on his heels. "You know what this is?" He looked up at Danny.

The older boy pulled a long draw on his beer and grinned, "What is it?"

Sam grinned back, "It's the last freaking pin in the last freaking dent."

"Hot damn!" Danny replied, reaching for Sam's beer that rested behind him on the work bench and handing it down to the younger boy. "About damned time. I was starting to think the dents were the only things holding this beauty together."

Sam took a long swig and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, unable to contain a smile. "After this, it's just a little body putty and some sanding."

Danny stood over Sam, admiring his work and nodding. "And then she'll be ready for the paint room." He whistled. "You decide on a color yet?"

"Yep. Black."

"Black like Dean's?"

Sam nodded happily.

"You got pretty good pretty fast with that stud welder." Danny offered.

"It's fun to use. Thanks for showing me. Sure beats trying to beat 'em out with the mallet."

"Well thank you for having the fake ID and the secret stash of beer in your mini fridge, Sir."

Sam laughed. "Anytime."

"It's the good stuff too. Who knew a 17-year-old had better taste in beer than me?"

"It's what Dean drinks." Sam admitted. "I just bought it because of that. Honestly, I've never tried anything else."

Danny raised his beer, "To Dean, then." He said, 'The man with the excellent taste in beer."

Sam smiled, and tipped his bottle. "To Dean." He echoed. "You have no idea how big a compliment you just paid him. He'd be hard to live with for a week after hearing that."

Danny moved to the front of the Mustang and leaned against it, legs crossed. "You really miss him, hunh?"

Sam stood up and placed the stud welder gently back on the shelf. He dusted himself off before joining Danny. "Yeah, I do." He said softly. "More every day."

"You know, you can use the house phone to call him any time you want. You have Dad totally in your pocket."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure he's convinced you're the last of your kind – someone under the age of 18 with a good work ethic and respect for their elders."

Sam grinned, "Well, I know all about respecting fathers; that's for sure. My old man wrote the rule book."

Danny was silent for a moment, "You don't talk about him like you do Dean. Is he still in the picture?"

Sam shrugged. "Not sure. Haven't heard from him in a while."

"He just took off? That's gotta be rough."

"I think something happened to him. He'd get in touch if he could."

"Maybe he just got caught up somewhere."

Sam shook his head. "For a while there, when I was … alone. I was mad at him every day for not getting in touch. But deep down, I know he would have if he could have, you know?"

Danny studied the younger boy who'd become something like a best friend to him in the short time they'd known each other.

"What?" Sam asked, catching the stare.

"I don't know. It just seems a shame that you're only 17, and you're so alone in the world, I guess. I mean, you're a good guy, Sammy. You're cool. You're smart. You're a damn hard worker. You're funny as shit when you're drunk."

Sam snorted.

"I just can't figure out how a guy that sounds as cool as Dean could just walk off and leave you to fend for yourself, I guess. I mean, you had to be what? Sixteen? That had to suck."

Sam was quick to set the record straight. "It's not Dean's fault." He sighed. "It's a long story really, but Mom was dead. Dad was always gone. He worked a lot. And Dean was the one who took care of me all my life basically. From the time he was four, Dean had to be mother, father, and big brother. It couldn't have been easy. I get it now. Sometimes I wish I'd been an easier kid – made it easier on Dean, you know? I was pretty damned selfish, looking back."

"All 16 year olds are selfish, Sam."

"Dean wasn't. When he was 16, he was driving me to school and picking me up after. He made my breakfast in the morning and my dinners at night. He packed my lunches for school. He made sure my clothes were clean and that I did my homework. And when I got sick, and I got sick A LOT, he plied me with medicine and soup. Dad was never around for any of that. I mean, Dean never went to prom. He never joined a basketball team or a car club. He never had a steady girl. Not in all that time. That couldn't have been easy."

Danny smiled. "Well, Dean sounds like one hell of a big brother."

Sam smiled back. "He's the best. He was in a bad place when we parted ways. I still think about that and wish … I wish I'd … made it a little easier on him, you know? I left an awful lot of pissy messages on his phone. I can't ever take those back."

Danny could tell that talking about his brother was therapeutic for Sam, so he let him continue, uninterrupted.

"I want so badly to call him every day, but I want him to be happy more. Does that make sense?"

Danny nodded.

"I think Dean needs time to figure out who he is without having the weight of me hanging around his neck. And now that I'm finally able to take care of myself a little bit, I can give him that. I get it. You know how guys go through mid-life crises when they hit their fifties?"

Danny snorted. "Do I? Some days I think Dad's going freaking insane. He dated my old babysitter last year, Sam. My BABYSITTER! It was totally creepy."

Sam chuckled. "How'd that turn out?"

"About like you'd expect. She came to her senses. That's what."

"That's too funny."

"It would be, if it wasn't so tragic. I still have to see that girl every time I pick up my mail in town. But anyway, you were saying?"

"I just meant that I think maybe Dean packed so much into his 20 years that it was like another man's 50 years, except not in a good way. I think he snapped. Had a breakdown or something. A midlife crisis at 20. That'd be the Winchester luck."

"So, you're not going to call him anymore?"

Sam shook his head. "No. More than anything, I want Dean to have a chance for a real life. And if that means I never get to s-see him again, then so be it." Sam took a swig of beer to hide the break in his voice.

"Hey Sammy."

Sam cleared his throat, "Yeah?"

"You know what I have?"

"What?"

"Three front-row seats to the best fourth of July fireworks in the greater city of Benton, Illinois."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and you're invited." Danny said, as he pulled three faded camp chairs out of the garage and swept the cobwebs off. "Careful there. Sometimes the front row gets all the critters."

Sam laughed as he set up his own chair and brushed it off. "Cup-holders, even." He noted.

"Only the best for the working man, Sam. Hey Dad." Danny greeted, handing his dad a chair and a beer from the cooler that sat in front of Sam's Mustang.

"Hey Ron," Sam greeted his boss and friend.

"Hey Danny. Hey Sam. Where'd you get this?" He drawled, twisting the top off and taking a long swig. "Damn. That's the good stuff, too."

Sam looked a little guilty as Danny gestured his way. "Sammy has connections." He said.

Ron looked at Sam without judgment. He'd grown damned fond of the boy who had enough morals to look uncomfortable at the revelation. And he had no intention of letting on that he'd accidentally overheard most of the conversation that had just taken place between his son and his young employee.

"Connections at 17," he nodded appreciatively. "We better keep you around, then, Sam."

Sam grinned and sank easily into his chair as the fireworks started far away on the south end of town.

"Hey Sam?" Danny offered.

"Yeah?"

"What say we take that fake ID of yours into town this weekend and light up a game of pool at Bixby's? Dad will come. Won't you, Dad?"

"Well hell yeah. Been a long time since I enjoyed a game of pool."

Sam nodded. "Sounds good."

"It's a plan then." Danny settled back to enjoy the show.

As the fireworks lit up the late summer sky, the view from Ritter's garage was perfect, and Sam couldn't help thinking about another Fourth of July fireworks display from what seemed like a lifetime ago – and how much Dean would love this – the beer, the car, the company. Sam sent up a silent prayer that wherever his brother was right now, he was safe and content. More than anything, Sam wished those two things for the man who'd sacrificed so much to give him everything.


	8. Back to Kankakee

The first box looked like someone had dumped out a kitchen junk drawer and then tossed in the bathroom medicine cabinet for good measure - an assortment of flashlight batteries, loose change, ink pens, and medications. It was the bag at the bottom of the box that caused Dean to swipe at his eyes, though - the old duffle Sam had carried the last time Dean saw him. He felt a pang of recognition as he pulled it out from beneath the layers of junk and dusted it gently off. This was the duffle that Sam had haphazardly packed up that final time in Pennsylvania – the one he was wearing over one dejected shoulder when Dean had pulled away that last hellish night. For a long time, Dean had had little visual recall of those final moments, but as time wore on, more and more was coming back. He could see that Sam clearly now – could feel his fear and could almost taste his panic.

Dean placed the bag carefully on the floor next to him, running one hand gently over the straps. He remembered buying the duffle too – picking it out special at a superstore in Birmingham because it had all those bizarre pockets and zippers and flaps that Sam was so crazy about. If he hadn't been born into a family of hunters, Dean reasoned, Sam would have made one hell of a good spy. Or maybe a girl.

"I guess I can stop calling him now," he said, holding up the flip phone he'd gotten Sam for his 16th birthday. It was in three pieces with a smashed screen and the battery popped out the back.

"How the hell did he manage that?" Bobby wondered. "Looks like he ran over it with his car."

"I would have."

After a moment, he dropped the broken phone into Sam's duffle, along with its charger. Returning to the box, he drew out a nearly full bottle of prescription medication that had been prescribed for Sam Jovani.

"What's Imitrex?" Dean asked, not recognizing the name.

"No idea." Bobby shrugged.

Dean made a mental note of the doctor's name and dropped the bottle into the duffle alongside the phone. He shoved the box away and reached for the next one.

"Sam smoking these days?" Bobby asked.

"I'll kick his ass if he is." Dean promised, looking over to see Bobby holding three matchbooks that he'd just fished out of the pocket of one of Sam's favorite old hoodies.

"Lonesome Roadhouse," Bobby read the name on the covers. "Ever heard of it?"

Dean stared, then shook his head, "It's a place to start though. Hey Bobby, toss that shirt in here, would you?" Dean scooted the duffle toward his friend.

The second box was full of drinking glasses, plates, and mugs that looked like they'd come from a yard sale table. Dean quickly pushed it aside and reached for the next one.

"Sam only had two pair of boxers?" Bobby asked, peering inside his second box.

"Well, let's hope at least three. Commando ain't exactly what the doctor ordered in this heat."

"And one pair of socks." Bobby rooted through the remnants.

Dean's third box was full of photographs, and he recognized them instantly; they were ones he'd left behind when he'd made his break in Pennsylvania. There was the old, faded photo of Sam and Dean when they were just babies really, cuddled in their mother's arms, and the one of Sam, Dean, and their dad when they were much older. Another photo portrayed the two boys with Bobby at his salvage yard – frozen images of happier times. Dean had coveted these photos for years – always possessive about them and not even letting Sam near them most of the time, except that now they looked back at him from framed glass. Sam had gotten them professionally matted and mounted. Dean held up the one of him and Sam and Bobby.

"Bobby."

When the older hunter looked up and saw what Dean was holding, a melancholy look swept over him. "I remember that day." He said softly, reaching over to take the picture. "Balls. That was a lifetime ago."

"That was right before Dad got back from hunting that werewolf in Louisiana, and all hell broke loose." Dean remembered, nursing a smile.

"Those two could sure knock heads – right from the get-go."

"I think Sam could argue with Dad almost before he could walk and talk," Dean agreed. He placed the framed photos gently in the duffle and pulled out another box filled with sheets and worn-out bedding – another offering that looked like it had come from the world's worst rummage sale.

Dean sat back and looked around him at the disarray. "Where're the books?"

"Hunh?" Bobby looked up from his box that held a toaster, a waffle iron and cleaning supplies.

"There're no books. That's weird."

Bobby stood up. "He's not much on material possessions, is he?"

"No." Dean said distantly, "I guess not.

Later, as they stowed Sam's meager belongings in the trunk of the Impala, Dean couldn't help but feel a pang of regret at the pathetic accumulation of worn and nearly worthless … things … that represented almost a year in his brother's life. Most of them hadn't even been worth dragging down the steps. A 17-year-old boy needed track trophies and a laptop filled with selfies of him and his friends doing stupid things. He needed a tee shirt collection featuring his favorite rock bands and a cell phone with his girl's number on speed dial.

Sam had used bedsheets and three towels he'd stolen from the Red Deer Lodge. And damn – the living conditions here. Even worse was the idea that he hadn't even felt safe enough to come back for this crap – sad as it was.

Dean had to pause in the middle of packing and take a moment to walk away and get his face and hands under control. And Bobby seemed to understand because he suddenly clapped the younger man once on the shoulder and strode off down the street, mumbling something about finding food that wouldn't make them both hurl in this hellish heat. The older man was almost to the corner before fireworks began lighting up the night sky above them both.

Dean leaned back against the hood of the car and stared up at the colorful rockets that felt like they were landing, dull and heavy, right on his heart. "When I find out what really went on here, Sammy," he muttered, "I'm going to end some people. I promise you, little brother; debts are gonna be paid in full."


	9. Bixby's Bar

Sam forced back a vague feeling of foreboding as he climbed the steps to Bixby's Bar, flanked on either side by Ron and Danny. He hadn't set foot inside a barroom since the Roadhouse in Kankakee, and he had no desire for a repeat of that unfortunate performance. The Incident, as Sam had taken to calling it in his head, had ended in three broken ribs, two black eyes, a split lip and an odd assortment of other painful aches and discolorations that he'd guessed were deep bruises and fractured bones. And though he couldn't bring himself to dwell on it much, Sam knew it could have been a whole lot worse. While he didn't mind stocking up on longnecks at the little liquor store on the corner, ever since The Roadhouse Incident, bars had been off Sam's list of fun places to go.

He didn't want to disappoint Ron or Danny though, so he kept his reservations to himself and followed the two to a dark table in the corner as the server sidled up.

"Hey Danny." She said in a friendly way. "Hi Mr. Ritter."

"Hi Kandy." Danny replied as Ron nodded. "Can we get three cold ones here?"

"Sure can. Your friend got some ID?"

Sam reached for his wallet and pulled out the Illinois driver's license that had been issued to his alter ego. Kandy palmed it for a minute then handed it back with a smile. "Three cold ones, it is." She winked and turned away.

All three men shared a look and small sighs of relief that they had made it into the promised land without getting turned back at the gate. "Sammy, you're a man destined for greatness." Danny noted, starting in on the bucket of peanuts that served as a centerpiece.

Sam rubbed his hands across his jeans nervously, glancing around to get a feel for the logistics. "Nice place." He lied.

"Man, I can't remember the last time I sat here." Ron added.

"Time to get you back on the map there, Dad."

"I like being off the grid, Son. But thank you kindly anyway."

Danny smiled, "Well, it's cool having a drink with the old man. Makes me feel like a gosh-darned grownup."

"You're an ass, Danny. But I'll keep you around, I guess. At least you give Sam here someone to play with."

Sam and Danny exchanged good-natured eye-rolls as the drinks arrived. "Hey Kandy," Danny caught her before she turned away, "Could we get some appetizers?"

"Anything for you, Danny Ritter." Kandy replied, shooting him another wink before moving to the next table.

Danny had the courtesy to blush as he turned back around to face the group. Suddenly, he found his beer very interesting.

"Well." Sam stated.

"Well what?"

"Well, what the hell was that, son-of-mine?" Ron finished as Sam snorted around the neck of his bottle.

"I think she plans to have your children, Danny." Sam said softly and jumped when someone in the particularly noisy group of patrons behind him cursed loudly.

"Shit!" Sam exclaimed before he could smother his sharp intake of breath. He quickly took a swig of ale to try and cover his sudden case of nerves.

Ron and Danny exchanged a quiet look before Danny replied, "Well, if you want grandkids, Dad," Danny said, "Kandy and I would make you some right smart-looking ones." He raised his glass and winked at Sam.

"You trying to tell me something, boy? And please say no."

Danny chuckled, "When the time comes. You'll know, Dad." He said, mysteriously.

"When the time comes, please don't let it be with Kandy Oldman." Ron replied. "I had drama club with her mother once upon a time, and I don't think the old ticker can take that much excitement ever again."

Sam and Danny both laughed out loud at the sudden image of Ron in drama club, or in high school for that matter, but Sam's hilarity came to an abrupt end when the back of his chair was suddenly hit with a bottle meant for someone in the group behind him. His own beer dropped to the floor as he sat frozen in near panic, glass and beer exploding in a messy mixture all over his hair and dripping down the back of his neck.

Danny jumped to his feet, grabbing Sam on the way up. "What the hell!" he hollered, pulling the taller boy back out of the way. "Bruce!"

The owner came pounding over, bouncer right behind him. "What the hell's going on here?" He growled, eyeing Sam as he stood dripping.

"Not us, Bruce." Ron jumped in. "Your boys over there need leashes."

"And they owe Sam an apology." Danny was as irate as Sam had ever seen him. He tried to act calm - to reassure Danny that everything was fine, but the words were frozen in his throat. Sam's eyes were big as saucers and his hands shook slightly as he stood there, silently dripping on the floor, and he couldn't do a thing to pull himself together.

"The hell you say." Bruce exclaimed, making a beeline for the trouble makers. In a shot, Bruce had one under his left arm and the bouncer had two clasped to his chest as they manhandled the boys toward the exit.

"Sorry, man." One got out as he was dragged past Sam. "That wasn't meant for you."

"Can it!" The owner snarled. "And don't let me see you back here again. You got it?"

Danny eyed Sam apologetically and made a move to try and brush away the small pieces of glass that littered his shoulders. "Kandy!" he hollered, "Can we get a few towels over here?"

The girl hurried over, three dish towels in hand and gave Sam a sympathetic look. "You okay?" She asked, handing two of the towels to Danny and using the third to move around behind Sam and dab at his neck.

Sam tried to smile, "Ye-yeah. I'm fine." He breathed shakily, tipping his head and shaking it gently as glass tinkled to the floor.

"Careful where you step," she said, pressing the last towel into Sam's hands. "I'll go find a broom."

"Well, isn't that some sorry shit!" Ron exclaimed, as he grabbed napkins off the table next to them to wipe off the back of Sam's chair.

"It's okay, r-really." Sam breathed, trying to calm his voice. "Just t-took me by surprise, is all."

Danny was furious. "You hurt, Sam?" He blurted. "Turn around and let me see the back of your neck."

"No, really. I don't think it hit me. It hit the back of the chair."

Danny stood, slightly mollified, as he cleaned the worst of the glass and beer off his friend. "Well, that was bullshit." He said, then repeated it as a shout.

"That was bullshit, Bruce!"

Oh, give it a rest, Ritter!" the owner belted back. "Shit happens. Anyway, your appetizers and drinks are on the house for the duration."

Danny suddenly grinned, "Well hell's bells." He gloated. "That's a horse of a different color then."

Sam ducked his head and grinned, happy that the spotlight was off him, and focused on dabbing up the worst of the wetness that lingered inside the collar of his denim jacket.

"Sam probably wants to go home, Danny." Ron admonished. "He's practically swimming in beer. And by the smell of it, it wasn't even good beer."

"No, it's okay, Ron. Really." Sam assured him. "We can stay. It's mostly all soaked up anyway." He removed his jacket and draped it over the chair back.

Kandy interrupted the exchange just then, broom in hand, and extricated everyone safely off to the side as she swept up the slivers of brown glass. She silently exchanged Sam's chair for the one across the aisle, and shot him an apologetic smile. "There you boys go," She said. "Good as new. Or almost."

Danny returned her smile and Sam thanked her as she moved away.

"I'll be right back with your appetizers. And I upgraded you to the party platter." She said conspiratorially. "What Bruce doesn't know will never hurt him." Another wink.

Sam folded himself into the dry chair, and Danny reseated himself on Sam's left as Kandy arrived with three new bottles. Sam reached for his instantly, attempting to look at ease, but his shaking hands betrayed him.

Danny noticed, "You know, I've been coming here for a good six years, and this is the first time I've ever seen any trouble." he apologized. "I feel bad, Sam. This really is usually an okay place to hang out."

Sam shook his head, frowning. "It's okay, really."

"Danny's right. Bixby's is the last place you'd expect to see trouble. That kind of stuff mostly happens out on Highway 8." Ron added. "But if you want to go, we'll understand."

Sam shook his head, taking another drink. "I think that's our appetizers." He said, hoping to change the subject.

Danny whistled as the server set the huge platter of mozzarella sticks, potato skins and onion rings in the center of the table, adding a small stack of plates off to the side. "We eat well tonight, gentlemen."

"Hot damn." Ron reiterated. "That smells amazing. And suddenly I'm starving."

Sam smiled as the heavenly aroma drifted toward him. He reached a quaking hand out and snagged a mozzarella stick and dunked it quickly in the marinara sauce as Ron handed him a plate.

"What's the world coming to when a guy can't even enjoy a dark barroom and a cold beer?" the older man questioned.

Danny snorted, "Yahoos from out of town. People around here have more sense. You ever see anything like that before, Sam?"

Sam felt suddenly shy, and he took a drink before answering. "Well, I've only ever been in one other bar, but I did get myself into sort of a situation." He said simply and smiled.

Danny stared at him. "Oh, do tell, Sir." He grinned, but Sam just shook his head.

"Sam, you'll learn one of these days that tossing out a morsel like that and then refusing to elaborate just makes Danny crazy." Ron informed him. "You might as well spill the beans now, or he's going to hound you mercilessly into next week."

"S'totally true, Sam."

Sam smiled and shook his head indulgently. "I just … the last time I was in a bar was a roadhouse outside of Kankakee." He said.

"Yes, and?" Danny pried.

"And well, nothing." Sam answered. "I just … I just had never been in a bar before. I mean, when I was younger sometimes I'd follow Dean while he played pool, but I always sat over in the restaurant and watched him from there while I did my homework. But in Kankakee, I wanted to sit at the bar, so I just took the first bar stool I saw that was empty. I didn't pay attention to who was sitting next to it."

"Some hot babe?"

Sam laughed. "No! Some dude who looked to be about seven feet tall and just as wide. I guess when I sat down there, he thought it was because I wanted to talk to him. He started trying to make conversation, and I just wanted to drink a beer and see what all the fuss was about, you know?" He took another swig of beer. "It was the way Dean always did it."

Danny suddenly looked less jolly, "And what happened?"

Sam sighed uncomfortably. "And he started getting real friendly, putting his hands on my shoulders and stuff. When he grabbed my knee, I made for the door."

Danny and Ron exchanged a look as Sam continued.

"But he followed me out and waylaid me behind the dumpster. He called me some names and smacked me around a little, and then he went back inside." Sam finished his story. "Someone woke up me later and called an ambulance, and I got a few cracked ribs and some stitches out of it. That was all."

"He knocked you out, Son?" Ron asked, all pretense of jocularity gone. "Did you call the cops?"

Sam shook his head. "Someone did, I guess. They came to question me in the clinic, but I just wanted to forget it happened." He looked up at Ron and Danny and noted their stricken looks. Suddenly, Sam felt like he'd shared too much and tried to backpedal. "It's okay, really. The guy kind of stalked me for a while, but when I left town, he gave up. No big deal."

Danny stared. "No big deal, he says."

Sam stared straight back. "It really wasn't. Look, I probably shouldn't have shared that. I'm sorry. Dean did always say I made a great buzzkill."

Danny sat back in his chair and risked a glance at his father, who nodded slightly.

"Look Sam," he said, leaning forward gingerly. "Dean's not here right now to do it, so I'm just going to go out on a limb here and play big brother for a minute, okay? First of all – never go into a roadhouse alone. Those places aren't for guys like us who just want to burn off a little steam and throw some darts, maybe shoot a little pool, okay? A lot of the people who frequent the roadhouses are looking to hook up. You get my meaning?"

Sam sat nursing his beer and looking more uncomfortable by the minute.

"Secondly, the barstools are close together in those places for a reason. When you sit next to someone, it's usually because you want them to see that you're interested. Not always, maybe, but it's a good bet – especially if other stools are free. Now that's not to say that what happened was your fault. It wasn't. You should be able to sit anywhere you want and drink a beer without being manhandled, but just for future reference, keep that in mind, okay? Lastly, and I'm only asking you this because you're my friend and I worry, what kind of names did he call you? Did he only beat you up behind the dumpster? Or did something else happen?"

Sam looked away.

"Sam."

"Sam, look at me."

Sam met Danny's eyes.

"What did he call you?"

Sam swallowed, "He called me a cocktease." He said softly. "I didn't know what he meant at first, but I figured it out later."

Danny closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He opened them again and looked straight at Sam. "Did he do anything else?"

Sam shot a haunted look around the bar before returning Danny's stare head-on, "No." He said. "Nothing else. Just the smackdown." He rose from his seat. "I'll get us more beers. Be right back."


	10. What Brothers Do

Dean and Bobby stopped just inside the door of the Lonesome Roadhouse and stood studying their surroundings. It was a hunter thing – always know where your exits are and notice who you're dealing with. What they noticed immediately was an especially rough-looking crowd, and Dean wondered to himself how in the world Sam had ever even found this place, let alone why he'd want to actually venture inside.

"Damn, Bobby. I've seen a lot of dives in my day, but this place makes me want to turn tail and get the the hell out of Dodge."

"You're not kidding, boy." Bobby agreed. "Keep an eye on your six."

Dean nodded as the two made their way carefully to the bar, sidestepping to avoid becoming entangled in a fight that was taking place in the middle of the floor directly in front of them.

Dean caught the bartender's eye and nodded. When he approached, Dean ordered two beers. His eyes wandered toward the back of the bar where a couple stood up against the wall, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were in a public place. Dean saw worn body parts that he could have done without as he looked quickly away and shot Bobby a haunted look. The older hunter just snickered and shook his head silently as he took a sip of his beer. "Ain't no accounting for taste here." He agreed.

"I think I need a shower."

"I think I need boiled." Bobby returned. "This stink ain't comin' off that easy."

When the bartender passed by a second time, Dean shot out a hand to stop him. "Could you tell me if you've seen this guy recently?" He held out the flyer with Sam's photo.

The bartender took the paper, studied it for a moment and turned resentful eyes back to Dean. "You cops just don't give up, do you?" He snorted. "Why don't you let the kid alone? You don't think he's been through enough already?" He slapped the flyer down on the bar and slid it back over to Dean. "You know, he seemed like a nice kid. He didn't deserve what happened to him, but you guys hounding him all the time – that just makes it all worse somehow. Give the kid some peace already."

Dean gaped at the guy, unable to compose his next question, but Bobby stepped in quick. "We look like cops to you?" He roared. "We're his family." He pointed to Dean. "That's his brother. I'm his uncle. Kid's been missing for a while. We'd like to find him. So if you got anything else to say, how about you keep that in mind, hunh?"

The bartender snorted, "Family, my ass." He replied. "If you're not cops than you're something worse. Way I see it, either one spells bad news for the kid. So just take it back outside, why don't you?"

Dean found his words then, "Look." He said, "This is Sam. He's my brother, and I've been looking for him for a long time. You're the first solid lead we've had in weeks, so you'll understand when I say either you elaborate, or I'm going to help you get the words out. You get my meaning?"

The bartender stared at Dean, unfazed by his threats. He'd seen it all, after all, and he didn't scare easily. "I'm not telling you a damned thing." He turned to walk away.

Dean caught him by the arm and dragged him close. He pulled the guy forward until they were forehead to forehead and barked a final threat. "I'm not asking again. Now you tell me everything you know about what went on in this dive with my little brother, or I'm not going to be responsible for what comes next. You got that?"

"Greg, you need a hand?" Someone called out from the other side of the bar. The bartender held Dean's gaze for a moment before seeming to relent. "No, James. We're all good here." He glared at Dean, "Aren't we, friend?" He snarled.

"That's depends on the next words out of your mouth." Dean replied, turning the guy loose.

Greg straightened his shirt as his eyes shot daggers at Dean. "What's there to say?" He offered. "The kid made the mistake of talking to the wrong dude. I don't know why he did it. It was obvious from the get-go that he was going to get his ass kicked or worse."

Bobby squinted angrily, "What the hell are you talking about?"

Greg sighed, "This kid here?" He gestured to the flyer. "He was in a while back. He bellied up to the bar next to bad news, big as you please. He got his ass handed to him on a plate for his trouble."

"Handed to him how?" Dean barked.

"Out back, behind the dumpster. I didn't find him til closing. Called the cops. Called the ambulance, and they took him away. That's the last I saw of him."

Dean sat back, suddenly sick. He swallowed hard but couldn't find the courage to ask the next obvious question. The bartender studied his pale face for a moment and saw something there that he hadn't before. He sighed and stepped forward, reclaiming the paper with Sam's face on it, worrying it gently in his hands. "Look, I waited on him that night, you know? I could tell he'd never been in a place like this before, and I tried to warn him. I turned him away initially, but he forced his ID in my face, and I didn't have any choice but to serve him. I knew he was in trouble the minute he stepped through the door – good looking kid like that all alone? Then he sidled up next to Big Ben, and sat down, and that pretty much sealed the deal."

"Who the fuck is Big Ben?" Dean asked hollowly.

"Big Ben is that mountain of madness standing over there in the corner," Greg replied. "He's the one who put the hurt on your brother, and you'd be well advised to stay the fuck away from him."

Dean and Bobby both leaned in to look at the man Greg singled out. The dude was standing at the pool table, every bit of 300 pounds, tattooed to China and back, and well over six feet tall. He had an ugly expression on his feral face as he leaned in to make his shot.

Dean looked at Bobby, blinking rapidly. He couldn't force his throat to work.

"What did he do to Sam?" Bobby finally asked the question.

Greg studied the two sympathetically, before choosing his next words carefully. "I don't know how far it went, honestly. Nobody witnessed anything, or if they did, they ain't talking. The cops have been here more than once. Hell, they shut me down for three days because of it. " He offered. "To me, the kid looked like he'd gone a round with an Amtrak train – beat to hell and gone, but his clothes were intact if that means anything."

Dean had a look on his face like a land mine ready to detonate at any moment. He took a draw on his beer before responding, "If the cops have been around, why the hell is THAT still here shooting pool?" He jerked his head toward the corner."

"You deaf or something? No witnesses. Look at the guy? Would you say anything against him?"

"So what?" Bobby cut in. "They just let it go?"

"Oh, they come round every now and again, looking for the kid to try and get his story, but he ain't been back before or since."

"You said he went to the hospital? No one talked to him there?"

"Way I heard it, the kid hightailed it out a window as soon as he was able. No one's seen him since."

Dean turned away from the bar wordlessly and took a final pull from his beer. He studied the man who was unknowingly enjoying his last night at the Lonesome Roadhouse.

The bartender followed the boy's gaze. "Like I said," He interrupted. "You let it go, or I'll be pulling you out from the dumpster tomorrow morning. Big Ben is not someone you want to mess with." He looked pointedly at Bobby. "Even two to one. You take him home, pal." He gestured toward Dean. "He'll live a lot longer that way."

Bobby plopped a fifty down on the bar for the man's trouble and nodded. "Thanks for the information."

Greg looked at the bill and pushed it back toward Bobby. "This one's on the house." He replied. "That kid has haunted me since the day he walked through my door."

Dean and Bobby made their way back to the Impala and sat, silently turning over this newest information.

"Balls." Bobby said softly.

Dean turned to look out the window, trying to compose himself, throat working convulsively with no sound coming out. All he could see was Sam as he'd last left him – standing sad and alone and looking every bit of 16 - on that curb in Pennsylvania. He beat his fists against the steering wheel then until he drew blood.

"How do I live with this?" he sobbed, turning to look at his lifelong friend. "Bobby, how do I go on from this?"

Bobby studied the young man before him who was more like a son than an adopted nephew and fought to speak over the painful lump clogging his throat. "You just do, Dean." He said gently, pulling the sobbing boy into a rough embrace. "You just do. For Sam."

Later, long after the bar had settled down for the night and Greg had flipped the "closed" sign on the door, a big man exited the bar and strode purposefully over to one of the last two cars in the lot. He was feeling good, but not sloppy drunk, which was how he liked it, and he figured he'd maybe pay a visit to an old girlfriend who still lived on the other side of town. She wouldn't be at all happy to see him, but the man didn't care. He'd have his fun regardless.

It was these final thoughts that played through his mind as the grizzled guy in the battered ball cap stepped out of the sleek, black car and approached him gravely. Big Ben had turned to face the man when he felt the pain in the small of his back. It felt like he'd just been filleted as he dropped to his knees in front of the stranger. A man moved in close behind him, a chin digging roughly into his shoulder. A paper appeared in front of him, and he recognized the face on it instantly.

"I'm Dean." The voice on his shoulder whispered quietly in his ear as his life left him. "And I think you know my brother."

Late the next afternoon, Greg opened up the back door to set out the two bags of trash from last night's shift, but the path to his dumpster was blocked by a big man stretched out in an ocean of blood, his pale face forever frozen in a look of abject horror.

The bar owner stepped forward and studied the man silently. Then he casually fished out his phone and made two calls. An hour later, the obstruction in his back alley had been taken care of, as his younger brother sat nursing a free beer at the end of the bar and his older brother hosed blood off the concrete and out of his truck bed liner.


	11. Reckless Hunter

Sam made himself small, flattening his length along the wall behind the office door. The knife in his hand felt good, and he smiled. It had been so long since he'd picked up a weapon that he wasn't sure he still had what it took to save the world one monster at a time.

But this … this felt right.

Sam barely breathed as he made himself as small as possible and inched forward - quite an effort for someone of his height. The only light in the room came in through the windows, reflected back from the lights of the cavernous parking lot outside. No one had used this building in years, and neglect was beginning to retake the interior. In every room and hallway, Sam was met with the unsettling ping of dripping water and the overpowering smell of mold – like once-living things had been left too long to stew in their own soup. It was the perfect horror story setting for the creature Sam hunted.

This djinn was the worst of its kind – the one Dean called a "bastard off-shoot." It fed on fear and left its victims helpless and trapped inside the terror of their own minds until they eventually died of fright.

Until recently, Sam had never really dwelled much on his own mortality, but he was sure actually dying of fright was a pretty shitty way to go. However this night turned out, though, Sam would take the djinn down, or he would die trying. It had already wreaked havoc on the tiny, neighboring town that butted up against Benton, claiming people that Danny and his dad knew – had grown up with – and resigning them to horrible, drawn-out deaths. And once Sam had heard the details, he knew instantly what needed to be done. He planned to end the thing's reign of terror tonight, even if it was the last wrong he ever righted.

Ever since that disastrous visit to Bixby's Bar, Sam had felt … raw ... like there was little left of himself that was worth sharing with anyone. And he cursed daily the sudden impulse that had moved him to reveal far too much of himself to his friends. Danny and Ron had yet to look at him the same as before, and deep down, Sam was terrified that they likely never would. There was a chasm now that yawned before him – forcing people he was only just beginning to trust to sidestep to avoid falling in. It wasn't that they thought less of him. Sam knew they were good people. It was just that they couldn't look at him or think of him now without picturing the portrait he'd unwittingly painted of himself as helpless victim.

Sam could live with a lot of crap, but helpless and victim weren't two of them. Picking up his knife again gave him back the power he craved – that he yearned for. And if tonight was his night to die, well, at least he'd go out with purpose.

Since Bixby, Dean was the only reason Sam still even attempted to pull himself out of bed each morning to try and face the day. He felt bad for worrying Danny and Ron, because he could tell that his three-day-old stubble and bloodshot eyes were a problem that grew larger for them every hour, but it was really only the thought of Dean that actually got him on his feet each morning as the sun came up. He couldn't just lay down and die – his brother had given too much – had sacrificed himself over and over again – and Sam just couldn't toss all that away without a fight. So Sam would still put one foot in front of the other, would still smile in all the right places, and might even make an effort to reciprocate once in a while if those things meant he was still among the living.

On the other hand, if he went out battling a djinn … well. No one could call him weak for trying to save the world, right?

After all the years of training and practice and deprivation, it was Sam's willingness to die that had turned him – finally – into the fearless hunter that his dad and Dean had tried so hard to cultivate.

But it made him reckless too. And when he rounded the last corner of the last dingy conference room on the ground floor, it was his recklessness that alerted the djinn to his presence. He charged in, knife drawn to strike, when he saw the creature hovered over the man who cowered, injured and momentarily helpless, in the corner - outlined starkly by a single beam of light that fell through the slat of one broken blind. Sam couldn't really see. He couldn't smell anything but the pervasive mold that creeped into every one of his senses. He had only the blue glow of the djinn's eyes and the guttural sounds of terror coming from its victim to guide him forward. But he made the charge anyway, desperate to save the other man, who could only be a hunter, before the djinn could subject him to his own private hell.

But djinns moved notoriously fast, and with lightning-quick reflexes, the creature was behind Sam, reaching for him. From the corner, the man Sam had wanted so badly to save saw neon blue eyes materialize right behind the slim figure that had just burst through the door, and he yelled, but not in time.

The djinn's hand closed on Sam's shoulder, jerking his body tense and sending forth tendrils of blue energy that slowly crawled along the boy's neck and upward to his temples. And Sam could feel the terror creeping in, could suddenly visualize his brother's face, colder and more distant than Sam had ever seen it. He wanted to reach out to Dean, to touch him on the shoulder and tell him that it was okay, that he understood now, but the icy fear of rejection stayed his hand. A moment longer, and Sam would be forever locked in that world with nothing but a brother who hated him, endlessly trying in vain to elicit a spark of warmth or recognition from a man who felt nothing but resentment.

But in one swift move, the second hunter hurled himself forward in an effort to save the kid in front of him, using the monster's glowing eyes to estimate his target. He attempted to sink his blood-tipped knife into the creature's skull, but managed only a graze.

But a graze was all Sam needed.

As the djinn flailed, it released its hold on the boy who spun instantly in place and sank a second knife into the beast's heart. The hunters worked together to push the foul thing back and away, and it fell with a crash that was deafening in the echoing room.

The exhilaration was short-lived, however, as the other hunter pulled out a jar of lamb's blood and shakily re-dipped his knife. He turned on Sam, "My partner!" He blurted out, pushing past the boy at a run.

Sam retrieved his own blade, re-dipped it, and followed after the older man. In the back of his mind, he reran the lore: Djinns like these were familial creatures – find one, and you'd likely find more, generations even. They lived in nests not unlike vampires, and they would fight viciously to defend their offspring. Suddenly Sam was happy in the knowledge that the odds had become slightly more even by the unexpected presence of at least two other hunters. Though he'd never before worked a case with anyone but his father and brother, Sam knew three were better together in a fight than one.

Blindly following the pounding footsteps in front of him led Sam to a set of double doors, and as the two hunters moved silently through them, they found themselves in a cafeteria filled with windows. The light was slightly better here – good enough to make out the small crowd of tattooed creatures that gathered together in one corner of the room.

Sam counted six – all in various stages of development – and they were all distracted enough not to hear the arrival of Sam and his ally, focused instead on the writhing man on the floor in front of them as one held him captive, wrapping him in glowing tendrils of blue.

The older hunter skidded to a silent stop and turned to Sam, "Go around …" He began his directions, but Sam barely heard him. With a roar, he charged onward instead, right into the middle of the fray, knife slashing.

In an instant, Sam put down two djinn and plunged his knife through the chest of the third – the one who tortured the remaining hunter. As he pulled it free, he heard the man's partner behind him, slashing away, and saw two more djinn fall like dominoes all around him.

That left one.

The one remaining djinn looked old. Everything on him was faded, from his tattoos to his hair to the eerie blue glow in his eyes. But he was built. He was tall and strong – formidable under any light.

And he sported a gentle smile.

"Alpha." The older hunter warned behind Sam. And the boy felt his blood run cold.

The two advanced on the djinn who was no doubt centuries old – the founding father of djinns everywhere - with the knowledge and wisdom of ages at his disposal.

Still, Sam wasn't afraid. He could hear the ragged breaths of the man behind him as he fought back panic, but Sam's own thoughts and hands were steady, his focus clear. He was intent on only one purpose. And the genie sensed his lethality. It turned its attention to the young boy with the fearless advance who wielded nothing but a small, blood-soaked knife and a determination that the creature hadn't encountered for longer than it could remember.

And it nodded approvingly.

 _ **Author's note:** Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to review and to everyone who's reading or following. Your kind words and support are greatly appreciated. I hope I responded personally to everyone who commented, but if not, it's only because I'm still figuring out the whole process._

 _Someone who left a nice comment mentioned that it would be good to witness Sam on a hunt, and that's what inspired this chapter :)_


	12. A Clue for Dean

Dean awoke to another depressing motel room in another nameless, faceless town with one difference – he was alone now. October had come and gone, and with it, Dean's resolve to remain on the straight and narrow until he'd located his brother.

On the one-year anniversary of the worst day of his life, Dean had gone on such a bender that he'd broken up a redneck bar, his motel room, and even Bobby's nose when his friend had tried to intervene. For the older man, it had been the last straw. He couldn't find it in himself to stay angry with the boy because he understood the pain he was feeling, but for Bobby, hanging around any longer was just detrimental to them both. So he'd hopped a bus back to Sioux Falls with a promise to work things from the other end and to call if anything came up.

Dean watched him go with an emptiness that was all-encompassing. He had seen dark days before, but the sadness that clutched at him now reached a depth inside that even he couldn't bring himself to face for fear of drowning in it. There was no Sam to anchor him, no boat to hang onto, no life vest to inflate. There was just Dean and endless miles of rolling, staggering waves that sought constantly to suck him down and crush him under the force of an ocean.

That had been a week ago, and Dean was still struggling to stay afloat. In his heart, he was certain that his strength was winding down – his battle drawing to a close. He was no longer confident in his ability to wake up and toss his legs over the side of the bed every morning. And he had even less faith in his investigative skills. Every dead end, every "I've never seen that kid before in my life," and every door that slammed unceremoniously shut in his face was just another can of gasoline on the fire. One day, Dean understood that somebody, somewhere was going to drop a match, and that would be the end. There would be no more Dean, no more Sam.

There would be no more Winchesters.

And that was the thought that forced his foot inside his boot and his arms inside his shirt every day when he wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over his head and die quietly in his sleep.

He was contemplating these cheery thoughts when his phone rang from the nightstand. Not recognizing the number, he flipped it open and barked a greeting.

"Yeah?"

"Uh," a man's voice, "I'm calling about a flyer I have here of a missing kid."

Dean's heart jumped instantly to his throat. He'd been tacking up those flyers in every town he hit along the way – in barrooms and laundromats, on grocery store bulletin boards and in bus stations. So far he hadn't gotten even a nibble. "You've seen him?"

"Well, uh, first I want to know why you're looking for him."

Dean had no time for this shit, "Because he's missing, and I want him back. Why do you think?"

Silence.

Dean reconsidered his tone, "Look, whoever you are - don't hang up. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bark at you."

"Well, uh, I think I know this kid, and he's a good kid. So I'm not going to tell you anything unless I know for sure that you have his best interests at heart."

Dean considered this, and it made sense to him and pissed him off the same time. "Listen, Sam's my brother. We got … separated … a while back, and I've been searching all over Illinois for him ever since. I'm worried about him. It was my job to look after him, and I … I didn't do it."

The man hedged, "Well, yeah. This kid had a brother – talked about him all the time like he was some saint. You older or younger? What's your name?" He asked.

Dean swallowed at this new revelation, "I'm four years older. Dean. My name's Dean."

The man let out a sigh of what sounded like relief. "So your brother, his name's Sam, right?"

"Yeah, Sam Jovani."

"Oh. Well, this kid told me his name was Winchester."

Dean sat stunned. "Oh." He said, not having seen that coming.

Well, sometimes he uses Winchester too." That even sounded lame to Dean's ears. He just hoped the guy would buy it.

"Yeah, well, he came here looking for a job, and I hired him on."

Dean rummaged around for a piece of paper and a pen, "And where is this?"

"Salem, Illinois – in Marion County."

"He still there?"

"Nah, I had to let him go. Hated to do it. The kid was a damned good worker, but my wife's aunt passed away sudden with no life insurance. Took all our savings to bury her, and I couldn't afford to keep him on anymore."

Dean tried not to smash a fucking hole in the son-of-a-bitching wall. "So, he say where he was headed?"

"Maybe. I got a second cousin in Benton, about an hour away who's in the same business. We ain't talked in a while so I didn't give the kid no promises, but I told him he might want to check in with Ronny."

"So what did Sam do there? Wait tables?"

"Wait tables? Hell no. I got a garage. He didn't know a lot when he first showed up here, but he knew enough. Knew how to change oil and flush out transmissions, stuff like that. The rest he picked up pretty quick. He drove an old blue beater and was working on fixing it up. I almost didn't hire him at all – he looked like trouble with a capital T, but there was just something about him that made me give the kid a chance."

Dean couldn't imagine what the guy was talking about. "What do you mean he looked like trouble?"

"Kid was beat to hell and back. Black eyes, busted nose, gimpy ribs. And he was limping a little, though he tried not to show it."

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. "So when was this? When did Sam first show up there?"

"Let's see, that would have been about the middle of May when he got here. I let him go about a month later."

"And your cousin's place, what's it called? You got an address?"

"Yeah, Ronnie and his boy work out of their barn down in Benton – called Ritter's Garage." He rattled off an address.

Dean didn't know what else to ask the man who'd given him the first solid lead since the roadhouse.

"So … he seem okay to you?" he blurted out.

The man paused, "What do you mean, okay?"

Dean swallowed, "I mean … happy. He seem happy? Well-adjusted?"

"Mmmm …. Yeah. I'd say so. We had a few good laughs from time to time. He was kinda quiet, you know, but respectful. He grew on you."

Dean knew exactly. Sam had the eyes working again.

"So, okay. Hey thanks for calling me." He said, "What's your name, by the way?"

"Larry. You can call me Larry."

"Well, thanks Larry. I …" Dean's voice hitched. "I appreciate you taking the time to call."

"Think nothing of it," the guy said. "I just hope you find him at Ronny's."

"Oh!" Dean had a thought, "You got a number for Ronny?"

"Nah, kid, sorry. Like I said, we ain't spoke in a while. There might be a number in the Yellow Pages though."

"Okay then." Dean replied.

"Take care, son. And when you see Sam again, give him my best. Tell him if things pick back up around here, I'd gladly take him back on."

Dean cleared his throat, "Will do." He said and broke the connection.

His hands were shaking as he hit speed dial on the phone and connected instantly with Bobby's voicemail.

"Hey Bobby," Dean tried to calm the quake in his voice. "I just got a lead from one of those flyers. Sam's working garages down around Salem and Benton. I'm in … well, hell, I don't know where I am, but I'll call you back when I find out." He disconnected and reached over to drag Bobby's worn laptop out of his duffle. The hunter had offered to leave it behind for Dean until they saw each other again.

His fingers flew across the keys until he got a hit on Ritter's Garage in Benton, IL. There was no website, but the address was right and there were two phone numbers listed. He called the first one, and breathed a sigh of relief when it was picked up on the first ring.

"Ritter's." A man answered.

Dean paused for just a moment, trying to calm his shaking nerves.

"Sammy? Is that you?" the voice asked, gaining intensity.

"What?" Dean was confused.

The voice deflated, "Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else for a minute."

Dean couldn't speak.

"Hello? You still there?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. Uh, I'm looking for Sam. Is he there?"

Silence.

"Who is this?"

"Who is this?" Dean barked back, not liking the sudden angry tone.

"Listen, if you know something about Sammy …"

Sammy. They called him Sammy.

"My name is Dean. Sam's my brother, and I'd like to talk to him."

A sudden intake of breath from the other end of the line.

"Dad!" a voice yelled out. "Dad, it's Dean!"


	13. Bad Home Movie

Bobby popped the top on his beer and sat down in front of the aging dinosaur that had once been a desktop computer. The monitor and tower still worked, but nothing had been updated on the machine in over a year – not since the last time Sam had fixed up his virus protector and took off all the spyware. The beast ran slower by the day, and eventually Bobby figured it would just give up and die a proud death. He planned to give it full hunter's honors when that day rolled around, and he kept a lighter in the drawer especially for that occasion.

Pulling on the beer, Bobby clicked on his email and waited a full two minutes for the page to load. He had one new message. The hunter clicked and waited, and a simple, cryptic message appeared:

"This him?"

That was all – a simple line of text. Then he noticed the attachment at the bottom.

"Balls!" he exclaimed when he realized it was a video file. But he clicked on it anyway, and then stepped away while it took its damn good time loading. It was the perfect opportunity to sample the peach cobbler he'd picked up at the little local market on the square. God knew – he had nothing but time.

Once he'd cut a generous slice out of the cobbler and warmed it in the microwave, the file had loaded. The old hunter sat back down at his desk and clicked a final time to get the video started.

It looked like high-quality nighttime footage shot from a parking lot security cam. The lot was empty except for the occasional stray leaf or piece of trash blowing by. The camera was one of those pricey contraptions that caught and zoomed in on movement, and Bobby was treated to a close up of a jittery possum family and a renegade Walmart bag before the djinn suddenly stepped into the frame. The camera zoomed and focused immediately. It clearly showed what looked like an alpha djinn dragging a dead or unconscious man across the lot by his feet. The unfortunate soul was on his back, feet tied together - the djinn pulling him effortlessly along. The man's hands were flung wide above his head as he was bounced mercilessly over the asphalt.

"That poor son-of-a-bitch." Bobby uttered, setting his saucer down and leaning in to look closer at the screen.

The djinn suddenly stopped his forward motion, causing the camera to zoom back out. But then the man on the ground flapped his arms uselessly, and the cam swung back in, focusing on his face.

"Well, Balls!" Bobby exploded, as recognition dawned. At first, he thought he was looking at a fucked John Winchester, but then the man opened his eyes and he realized that the man was really only a boy and that the boy was clearly Sam. His hair was longer and he had a shit ton of facial hair, but Bobby would know those soulful eyes anywhere – even cloudy and tear-filled as they were.

In the video, the boy seemed to suddenly realize that whatever was happening to him wasn't good. He began struggling in earnest to free himself, causing the djinn to drop his feet and back up a few paces. The creature stood looking down at the boy for a heartbeat – at his arms flailing in a desperate, confused way that posed no real threat. Then the djinn lifted one powerful leg and stomped squarely on his victim's neck, stilling him instantly.

"You son of a bitch!" Bobby yelled, jumping to his feet and sending his beer flying. It was all he could say as the djinn moved back to stand in front of Sam, picked up his feet again, and continued his merciless march until he'd crossed the parking lot and moved out of the camera's range. The angle instantly swung wide again, showing a nameless parking lot next to a nameless building that could have been located in any of a hundred-thousand nameless cities.

Struggling to collect his wits, Bobby glanced at the address of the sender of the horrific message. He swore once, then turned to pick up the phone. He punched out the number he knew by heart and growled when Rufus picked up.

"What the hell?" He snarled, "You send me something like that with no details?"

Rufus coughed. He had obviously been sleeping. "Bobby?"

"Yeah!" Bobby exploded. "Where'd you get that video of Sam, and where the hell was it taken and when?"

"Aw, so it is your boy." Rufus sounded genuinely bereft. "I'm sorry, man. Truly I am."

"Can the niceties," Bobby barked, "Give me details, dammit!"

"Steve Wandell put me on to it. We ran into each other two nights ago, and he told me about a hunt he took down in McLeansboro a week or two back. Steve said he'd be dead if it wasn't for this tall, rangy kid that came in storming the place like the Damned Lone Ranger."

"He was hunting djinn?"

"Hell yeah. You know Steve. He's fearless. Even I won't touch a damn case that spells djinn."

"So what happened?"

"Well, to hear Steve tell it, kid had a death wish or something. Just kept putting himself out there in the thick of it over and over again. He charged a group of six of the bastards, took out three single-handedly with a knife that looked like something a damn boy scout would carry – and that's after he took out the one that had Steve cornered."

"What about the alpha?"

"Well, that's where the story goes dark. Steve says him and the kid had the thing cornered, and then it just honed in on the boy and flicked Steve away like a gnat. He hit the wall and went out, and when he woke back up, the kid and the djinn were gone."

"Son of a bitch."

"Yeah, well, Steve felt bad, you know? So he went lookin' and found the security camera out in the parking lot. He got someone to hack in and that's the file I sent you."

Bobby closed his eyes and shook his head. "So this was in McLeansboro, you said? Any chance that's in Illinois?"

"Yeah, southern Illinois, down Benton way."

"I need the address of that parking lot."

"Call Steve. You still got his number?"

"Yeah." Bobby growled and hung up.

 **Author's note:** _Thanks for the comments :) A kind reader asked for Sam whump, so I did :)_


	14. Djinned

Sam was in a world of pain. His back was flayed. His head felt like it had exploded, and it was hard to breathe – like an elephant had landed on his neck and stayed to dance a set or two.

He was clearly going to die, strung out here on this wet, filthy mattress in the attic of some old house that looked like it belonged in a Stephen King novel. He wasn't even tied up or chained down.

He was just too injured to present any sort of escape risk, so the bastard had simply dragged him onto the mattress by his feet and left him there to linger.

Sam would kill for one of Dean's aspirin. Or he'd die for one – either option sounded fucking fantastic in the moment.

He willed himself to get up – for his gelatinous limbs to take control and raise him off the foul bedding that smelled like a mixture of puke, mildew and old blood. And in his clearer moments, Sam wondered how many people had died on this mattress already and how long it would take him to follow them down. The truth was, he wasn't going anywhere without help, and since nobody knew where he was or even where he'd stashed his car, that option was off the table.

And all that was left was a long, slow, and unnecessarily painful death.

Sam knew that eventually he would die from his injuries. So much of his blood had pooled beneath him already, and he was relatively certain that at least a portion of his windpipe was nearly crushed. He couldn't turn his head – couldn't lift his head even. The muscles simply didn't work anymore.

No fixing that.

"Nope, Sorry Dean," Sam thought – not enough stitches anywhere to put his head back on his body and make his neck work again. He was like a favorite sock monkey that some kid had loved just a little too much – all thin and floppy in all the wrong places with stuff oozing out the seams.

Wait … what?

"Where the hell did that come from?" Sam thought, and snorted. Or tried to snort. What came out was actually more like a sob, but hey, who was counting? And if a man cried in an attic and there was no one around to hear him, did he still have a brother?

"Those were some wild. fucking. drugs." Sam whispered, and cackled.

And always with the freaking water.

Drip

Drop

Drip

Drop

Dripdropdripdropdripdropdripdrop.

Couldn't anyone in this freaking town fix a fucking roof?

"That's alliteration, Sam." Dean said, shaking his finger in his brother's face. "Rarely a good idea. What's next? Plagiarism?"

"Fuck you, Dean."

"Baby."

"Jackass."

Dean tsked. He fucking tsked. When did Dean start tsking?

"Stop it." Sam said. "You sound like a little girl."

Dean held out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. "Stop what, little brother?"

"Stop fucking tsking."

"You stop fucking bleeding."

"Can't."

"Tsk."

"Fucker. I hate you."

"I hate you more."

"Why don't you help me, since you're here and all?" Sam demanded.

Dean stretched out lazily, full length across the putrid mattress, folded his hands behind his head, and took a deep breath. "Mmmmm … smells like … like …"

"Smells like what, Dean?" Sam sighed. "Puke? Blood? My outsides that are supposed to be inside?"

Dean suddenly leaned up on one elbow, hovering excitedly over his paralyzed brother. "Hey Sam! Remember that wendigo hunt in Colorado?" he grinned. "The inside of the cave? Now there was a smell. Ah," He leaned back, "Good times. Good times."


	15. Closing In on Sammy

Dean cruised to a gentle stop next to the farmhouse and did a quick recon for an old blue Mustang. Not finding his target, he stepped from the Impala and stretched. That had been one hell of a drive, and he was stiff all over.

He'd just started for the door when two men approached from the direction of the garage. Dean's hunter instincts pegged them instantly as father and son, which would make them Ron and Danny. He stepped forward to catch the older man in a handshake and was stunned to find himself suddenly wrapped up in a hug.

"Dean." The older man thumped him on the back twice and stepped back, "It's an honor to finally meet you, son." He smiled gently.

The younger man was flat-out grinning as he stepped forward, hand extended. "It's good to finally put a face with the name." He agreed.

Dean felt dazed, "Good to meet you," he offered, moving into the handshake.

He looked around briefly and swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, "So," he cleared his throat. "Sam around?"

The merriment in both men's eyes doused instantly, making the hair stand up on the back of Dean's neck. Ron clapped him on the shoulder, "Let's go in the house." He suggested. "That's where the beer is."

Dean pulled back, eyes narrowing, "I'm fine right here." He warned. "Where's my brother?"

The two exchanged a look before Danny spoke up, "We don't know where he is, Dean." He admitted.

Dean stared. "What do you mean you don't know where he is? Did we not just have a conversation less than 24 hours ago?"

"We did," Danny said evenly, meeting Dean's stare head-on. "Dad and I felt it was best to get you here safely before dropping the bomb. Sam's been missing for about a week."

Dean took a step back, ignoring the sudden hole in his gut. "Missing how?"

Ron shook his head, "Just … missing. No car, no Sam, no explanation. He just didn't come down one morning, and we haven't heard anything since. The local sheriff has the task force out looking, but they've come up with squat so far."

"There's a task force for Sam?"

"Here's the thing," Ron started. "There's been some … stuff … going on one town over. That's what the task force is about." He looked up at Dean hauntingly, "We're afraid Sam may have stumbled into something."

Danny cleared his throat, "They think … they think it might be a serial killer. Seven people have died, about eight more missing. Sammy … Sammy's on the MIA list." He looked away, swallowing hard.

Dean tried hard to breathe, "What makes you think he didn't just take off?"

The two exchanged another look. "Sam wouldn't just leave without telling one of us. Not with all this going on. Plus, all his stuff is still in his room."

Dean tried to hide his surprise, "He lives here?"

Danny nodded, "Over the garage."

"Show me." Dean demanded.

Ron hesitated for only a moment before fishing keys out of his jeans pocket. "You go look. Take your time." He wrestled a single key off the bunch, and handed it to Dean. He gestured toward the barn. "Room at the top of the stairs. We'll be inside. Sheriff's supposed to call anytime now with an update." He clapped Dean on the shoulder a final time before turning and making his way up the steps.

Danny offered Dean a final, sad smile before turning to follow his father into the house.

Dean worried the spare key in his hand as he made his way across the yard and into the sudden shadows of the garage. He stopped and looked around, searching for signs that his brother had ever been here, but there was nothing that halted him in his tracks and screamed, "Sam." Locating the dusty set of steps in the back, he climbed them slowly, suddenly hesitant to invade the space that his brother had carved out for himself so nicely.

But the thought of where Sam might be right now and of the trouble that he could be in made him brave. He slipped the key in the lock and swung the door wide.

Just like the room in Kankakee, Sam's sanctuary over Ritter's Garage was neat and well-cared for, and Dean caught a whiff of the same lemon-scented cleaner emanating from the kitchen. A quick once-over revealed a simple comfortable couch and a recliner grouped around a coffee table littered with books, and Dean smiled. Stepping forward, he read titles on car maintenance, classic poetry, and several paperbacks with jackets that claimed to be hot off the bestseller lists. There were empty longnecks – Dean's brand - in the small trashcan beside the couch, and Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Sammy, you son-of-a-bitch. You're not old enough to drink."

A quick survey of the fridge and cupboards revealed more beer, bagged deli meats, and frozen pizzas. The vegetable bins in Sam's refrigerator were crammed to the hilt with fresh produce – most of it greens that Dean wouldn't be able to name had his life depended on it. They were beginning to wilt though, and Dean realized, with a pang, that Sam hadn't had the opportunity to turn them into his beloved salads before they went bad.

Dean turned from his study of Sam's appliances and found himself face-to-face with his brother's old laptop. It sat atop a scattered mess of newspapers, and Dean was just reaching down to leaf through them when his cell phone lit up. He glanced at the number and flipped it open.

"Whaddaya got, Bobby?"

"Well hello to you too, Dean." The older man grunted.

Dean smiled, "I found Sam's apartment."

Silence.

"But no Sam, I'm guessing?"

"How'd you know?" Dean perused the paper that was tossed haphazardly atop the pile.

Bobby sighed, "Listen, kid. I just emailed you a video file. You near a computer?"

Dean sat down in front of Sam's laptop and flipped it open. "Yeah, I got Sam's right here," he said, signing into his email.

"Well listen … "

Dean paused, "Yeah?"

"It's gonna be hard to look at."

Dean felt his stomach flip-flop. "What the hell, Bobby? Is it Sam?"

"It's Sam."

Dean's fingers flew over the keys and opened the video file in question. He was silent as it began to play, and Bobby could tell the exact moment that Dean's blood began to boil.

"What the fuck am I looking at here, Bobby?" Dean exploded. "Is that a fucking djinn hauling my brother across a fucking parking lot by his fucking feet?"

"Did that fucker just neck-stomp Sam!"

"Calm down, Dean." Bobby tried to placate the furious man across the phone line.

"That sonofabitch is dead! I will END that ugly motherfucker!"


	16. Dying of Fright

The djinn stood silent at the top of the stairs, contemplating his next meal. The boy on the mattress was out, but the djinn could still feel his power – even in his unconscious state. The creature couldn't place it, but there was something different about his latest acquisition. He'd already fed numerous times from the boy, yet still his heart kept beating.

He didn't scare easy, this one.

The creature wondered how much longer he'd be able to feed from his current plaything before the hallucinations killed it, and he hoped there was no end in sight – the boy's fear was so exquisite and so delicious. Obviously, he had a shelf life, but he'd already outlasted every other human the djinn had feasted upon, and the creature found that impressive and a little … touching.

The elder djinn would have been content to stand and stare at the boy for hours, but his cravings propelled him forward. He knelt down before the youth as he lay motionless and reached out a hand. As ancient flesh melded with human skin, he threw his head back in ecstasy, heady with the hallucinations he generated in the boy and with the fear that accompanied them.

Sam groaned.

When the djinn touched him, Sam felt the darkness parting, and he was lifted up through the veil - back to the realm where the pain was real and the fear overwhelming.

His eyes opened slowly, and he blinked through a hurt so deep that it had no beginning, no end. It was everything, all at once, and it was nothing at all. Pain was all there was.

And then he noticed the figure kneeling over him, touching his shoulder – lovingly?

"Dean?" his voice was raw as he stared at his brother. The relief was intense. Dean had found him. Somehow, someway, his brother had found him and was going to save him. Sam tried to smile. "Dean. Thank God."

But Dean was angry. "What have you done, Sam?"

Sam tried to think. What was …?

"You dumb son-of-a-bitch. What did you do?" Dean glared at him with open hatred, and was that … disgust?

"Dean? I don't …"

"Don't even try it, Sam. Don't pull that helpless act with me. I see right through you – always have."

"What? … Dean."

But Dean only laughed. It was a cruel sound – so unlike his brother. Sam had never heard Dean laugh like that – ever. And he hoped he never would again. "Oh, you need help, all right."

"Dean … my head … the djinn." He whispered. "There's a djinn. Watch out."

"Yeah, there's no djinn, Sammy. This was all you."

"What?"

"You did this. You hurt yourself. Why?"

"Dean … no ... I wouldn't."

"Is this how you get back at me? Hunh? Is this payback for leaving you on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere? Cause that's sure the hell what it feels like."

"No." Sam breathed. "No! I wouldn't do that."

But Dean just glared down at him silently, and Sam recognized the look. He was contemplating his next move, and Sam saw the exact second when the light bulb went on. He tried to scuttle backwards to put some space between his broken body and his ice-cold brother, but his limbs wouldn't cooperate. The most he managed was a slight shift that set his head and his neck on fire and wrenched a scream from his mangled throat.

Then panic, "Dean! Don't!"

But the determination in his brother's face was unshakeable. It was the look he'd had the last time Sam had seen him, and it terrified the younger man now just as much now as it had then.

"I'm sorry, Sam." He said, shaking his head. "I can't fix this. You're too broken."

"Dean, no!"

"I can't leave you like this, little bro." Dean reached behind him and pulled out his .45. "It wouldn't be right to leave you like this. What would Dad say?"

Sam was crying now – tears rolling down his face in rivulets. He knew that Dean meant to kill him – that he thought killing him was the only option, the kinder option. And truthfully, Sam wasn't so sure he could disagree.

"You can stop the waterworks, you know." Dean told him coldly. "You did this. If you're gonna play, be prepared to pay, Sammy. I know Dad and I taught you that. So now this is how the bill comes due. Not only do you have to die, but I have to be the one to put you down. Now tell me, Sam, how is that fair?"

"Please …"

"Shut up!"

Sam tried to shut up, he really did. But a whimper escaped instead. And it made Dean roll his eyes in exasperation.

"Okay." Dean said. "Okay," and he looked Sam in the eyes. "I'm not going to lie, Sam. This is going to hurt like a bitch – close range and all – but I'll try to put you down in one shot. I promise." He cocked the gun and placed it under Sam's chin. "Dammit, the things I do for you, Sammy. You really need to grow the fuck up." Then he realized the irony in his statement and snickered, laughing directly into Sam's terrified eyes.

"Or not." He shrugged and pulled the trigger.


	17. Enlisting Local Help

Dean debated his next move, but there was no choice, really. He could set out in the Impala, wasting time – searching for the parking lot in question. Or he could enlist local help and maybe get to Sam before the djinn served him up on toast.

As Dean slapped the laptop shut, he cursed the name Steve Wandell. According to Bobby, the hunter had gone deep underground after sharing his revelation with Rufus, and nobody, anywhere, seemed to know where he was. Dean knew it was because he was attempting to put some distance between himself and the possibility of John Winchester. But what Wandell didn't know was that if Dean ever ran across him, he'd be just as fucked.

"He better pray that day don't ever come." Dean muttered, as he shot down the steps and ran for the house.

He met Danny coming out. "Danny!" Dean flagged him down. "Listen, I need your help."

Danny stopped and looked at Dean and at the laptop he was gripping. "Sure. Anything." He nodded.

"Come with me." Dean took the porch steps two at a time and didn't bother knocking.

"Ron!" He yelled, as he made his way down a hallway and into a kitchen. He placed the laptop on the table and tilted it open as Ron appeared, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

"What is it, Dean?" He cocked his head. Dean paused and looked at the two men who had been kind enough to take his kid brother in and treat him like family, and he felt regret. He knew he was about to change their views of the world forever, but Dean simply saw no other way. He had to get to Sam.

"Listen," He said again. "I'm sorry that you have to see this, but I need your help. Sam needs your help. Will you help us?"

Ron and Danny both nodded. They exchanged confused looks and moved to stand behind Dean at the laptop.

"This footage was taken a week ago," he explained to the two men as he cued up the video. "It's a parking lot somewhere around here. I need you to try and recognize anything you can – the layout, the type of bricks used in the building, the kind of gravel they used on the walkways – anything that will help us find it. You game?"

They nodded.

"Okay," Dean nodded back. "This is the thing that has Sam."And he clicked to start the video.

The two men watched wordlessly until the djinn stepped into view, then Danny gasped. "What the hell is that?"

"It gets worse." Dean warned, feeling sick as he was forced to relive his brother's abduction a second time.

When the camera panned in to the close up of Sam's face, Ron backed away. "Oh no!" he breathed. "No, no, no."

"Is that Sam!" Danny yelled. And all three men flinched when the creature brought its foot down on the boy's neck.

Son of a bitch!" Ron spat.

"Dad?" Danny turned to the older man for confirmation, his eyes watering, "Was that Sam? Tell me that wasn't Sam."

Ron pulled his boy into a hug and reassured him gently, "We'll get him back, son." After a moment, the older man reached out and pulled Dean in too. "We'll get him back. We will."

After a moment, Dean broke the embrace and pulled away, clearing his throat. "Do either of you know where this place is?" he asked.

No one spoke.

"If I run it again, can you focus on the surroundings instead of on what's happening? Please?" Dean all but begged.

Danny pulled away from his father and wiped his eyes. "Yeah, Dean. Of course." He said, steeling himself. "We'll watch it as many times as we have to."

It took three more tries before Ron noticed the chain link fence running through the lot across the street. "Could that be the old Amerisurance building?" He asked Danny. "It backs up against that empty lot out behind the shopping center. They just fenced all that in a while back, remember? Kids were running four-wheelers through there and tearing up the grass."

Danny squinted in thought. "Run it again, Dean."

This time the two men leaned in with practiced eyes. "Stop it there!" Danny blurted, and Dean hit the pause button to freeze the frame. The camera had just panned out near the end of the video, and the fence across the street was clearly visible.

"Look!" Danny pointed. All the way at the right of the frame, a sign was affixed to portion of the fence. It was too far away and too dark to be seen in detail, but it was clearly bright red.

"That's the sign they put up warning folks to stay away." He said excitedly. "I remember laughing when I first saw it because it seemed like overkill – bright red and gigantic and fixed right on the fence!"

"It is." Ron agreed. "Yep. We know exactly where that is."

"How far?" Dean asked.

"About 20 minutes."

"What's over here?" Dean tapped the side of the screen where the djinn had disappeared with his brother.

The two men looked at each other and shrugged. "Farms?"

"Farms? Any of them abandoned, old, falling apart?"

Ron thought, "Yeah."

Dean wasted no time. He whipped out his cell and dialed the familiar number. "Bobby? Yeah, I know where it is. I'm going to get Sam. What? No, I can't wait for you. That thing's already had him for a week. He's in serious trouble. How far out is Rufus? No, not possible. I can't wait for him. I'm going to get Sam today. I'll call you tonight. If you don't hear from me … give Rufus this address?" He looked to Ron for permission, and when the man nodded, Dean gave Bobby the address of Ritter's Garage. "Tell him to come here and talk to Ron and Danny, they'll fill him in. What? Yeah, I will Bobby. Yeah. Talk to you later." He disconnected the call.

Dean grabbed a pen and paper from beside the phone and handed them to Danny. "Write me down the directions?" He looked at the two men standing before him. "Gotta go." He said. "If I'm not back by this evening, there'll be a friend stopping by. Tell him everything you know." He was stayed by Ron's hand on his arm.

"Son, you're not going out there alone."

Dean snorted, "Oh yeah, Ron, I am. That thing has had Sam for a solid week. I can't afford to wait any longer."

Ron shook his head, "Danny," he turned toward his son, "Go bring the truck around."

He turned back to Dean. "I'll grab the rifles."

Dean shook his head. "No way."

Ron was adamant. "I'm sorry, son. There's no way Danny and I are letting you face this thing alone. I know Sam's your blood, but we've grown pretty fond of him too. Whatever this thing is …" he gestured toward the laptop, " Danny and I want a piece of it."


	18. About Damn Time, Dean

It was nearly over.

The creature could feel the boy weakening. After the last feeding, there'd been a significant change – a subtle shift in the boy's desire to survive. And the djinn knelt next to the mattress somewhat sadly. He was going to miss this particular pet when it was gone. Deep down, he knew he should have gone easier on this one – showed more restraint to make it all last longer. But the boy's utter faith in his brother, even as the hallucinations tormented him mercilessly, made for an emotional smorgasbord that the creature had never before encountered, and he feasted upon it greedily. In all his centuries of taking whatever he wanted from his unwilling human hosts, he'd never, ever tasted anything quite like it. The boy's unfaltering ability to maintain trust in the man who hurt him over and over again was … addictive … and the creature was strung out – strung out on the blinding faith of the youngest Winchester – like he'd never been before.

He looked sadly down at the boy, prepared to say his goodbyes, when he noticed his victim's eyes were open. The boy looked up at him warily through half-closed, watery eyes that pleaded with exhaustion, fear and regret.

"Please …" the boy whispered. "No … no more."

The creature gazed into the boy's eyes, reaching out a tentative hand, almost comfortingly. "It's almost over." It said lovingly.

"Oh, it's over, you blue-eyed son of a bitch."

The creature gasped and turned at the words that had been whispered in its ear at close range. And as it twisted, the man stabbed the knife in – dead center over the creature's ice-cold heart. The djinn stumbled backward, propelled by his attacker's momentum. He landed, pressed up against one of the attic's ancient wooden rafters, the man right on top of him, his weight unrelenting. They rested eye-to-eye.

He recognized the man instantly. "You. I know … you." The creature smiled cruelly, "You're … his worst nightmare."

"No," Dean snarled, driving the knife deeper in. "I'm his brother. I'm YOUR worst nightmare."

The djinn reached for Dean, but its centuries of power were fading as its heart circulated the lamb's blood throughout its aged body. The hand landed impotently on a flannel sleeve, the blue spark fizzling out.

Still, the djinn found the strength to taunt his final victim. "You'll never … bring him back from this. My power is too … strong, too invasive. He thinks he's paralyzed – thinks he's too broken … to ever fix."

"Shut up."

"Look at him. Do you see … any restraints? Any chains? He could have gotten up … and walked out of here at any time, but he didn't. Do you know why?"

"I know your ugly mouth is about to close forever, you sadistic bastard." Dean spat through gritted teeth. "And don't you worry about Sam, I'll get him back. He's stronger than you think."

"It's because he wants to die." The creature gasped as Dean forced the knife in to its hilt. "I don't … don't guide his dreams, but I … I can see them. They were you. They were all … you."

Dean tried his best to block out the creature's words. He'd be damned if he'd give it that satisfaction.

"You … are your … brother's worst ….. nightmare."

Dean watched as the last spark of blue light left the creature's eyes. "Yeah, well you're no wet dream yourself, Sparky." He growled, pushing the repulsive body away.

Dean whirled and fell to his knees beside the putrid mattress. He gathered his barely conscious brother up in a desperate hug, mindful of his injured neck - eyes closing, tears leaking out around the corners.

"Sammy, I got you. It's okay now. I got you, Sammy." He whispered, rocking the boy gently. "You're safe now, Sam. You're safe."

"Dean?" A weak voice answered him.

"Yeah, Sammy. It's me." He lowered Sam gently down so they could see each other face-to-face. He leaned down close so his brother could see him clearly."

Sam looked back at Dean through eyes wracked by days of torment, and he smiled gently. "What … what adventure are we ... going on today, big brother?"

Dean took his brother's face between his hands and stared gently into his eyes. "Listen to me Sam," he said. "I'm real, okay? No more hallucinations. No more djinn. That ugly blue bastard is dead. It can't hurt you anymore. You get it? And I won't hurt you anymore." Dean's voice broke. "I swear to God, Sammy. I'll never hurt you again." Dean moved to retrieve a water bottle from his duffle. He carefully positioned Sam's head to help him drink.

Sam took the water greedily, trying to down the whole bottle at once until Dean, regretfully, had to pull it away. "Easy, Sammy." he cautioned. "Not too much."

Sam made a small noise at the loss of the water, and Dean felt his heart break into a million more pieces, if that was possible. "Hey, you just have to pace yourself, okay?" he said kindly, pausing to brush a lock of hair out of Sam's eye. "Otherwise you'll be sick and heaving on top of everything else that bastard did to you." Dean roamed expert hands over his brother's battered body, searching to find the extent of his injuries.

"Bet your neck hurts, hunh? Can you breathe okay" His voice cracked again at the memory of that final scene on the video file. "That bastard died way too easy, Sam." he said.

Sam lay silent, staring up at his brother like he was waiting for the punchline, and nothing could have hurt Dean more. "Honest, little brother. I'm real. I swear. Sam, move your fingers for me."

Sam complied.

"Good. Now your feet. Can you shuffle your feet, Sam?"

Dean felt, rather than saw, Sam's feet moving behind him. "Good job, Sammy. You're doing real good."

Sam remained silent.

"Okay, Sammy." Dean said. "Moment of truth. Can you turn your head?"

Nothing.

"Sam, turn your head for me. Look over at the window."

"Can't … Dean."

"Why not?"

"Broken. Neck's broken." Sam said sadly. "Can't fix it. Dying."

"Not on my watch, baby bro." Dean reassured him. "That's just the hallucinations talking. How do you know you can't? Have you tried?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Sam let his eyes drift closed. "Scared." he breathed softly.

Dean's eyes misted back over as he brushed away a fresh tear from his brother's cheek. "I know you're scared, Sammy. But I need you to try, okay? Listen, you're moving your hands and feet for me, right? Come on, you're the scholar here, but if you can move your hands and feet, that means your neck can't be broken, right?"

Sam opened his eyes and looked at Dean. "Are you real?"

"I'm as real as porn, Sammy. I swear." Dean snorted. "As real as all those vegetables going bad back in your fridge. Now come on - turn your head for me.

Slowly, slowly Sam attempted to turn his head. It hurt like hell, and he gasped, and it took a lifetime, but he did it. He giggled.

Dean snorted, "Dude, did you just laugh like a girl?" he teased, as relief overwhelmed him.

"Shut … up, jerk"

Dean reached down and gathered his brother in his arms again. "Aww Sammy, you little bitch. God, I've missed you, even if you do need one hell of a shave."


	19. Brothers Back Together

"We gotta wrap this up now, Sam. Get you home. Get you safe. You with me?" Dean stared into his brother's eyes.

No response.

"Sam! You with me?"

Was that a nod? Dean thought it was. "Good. Hang on little brother."

Dean picked Sam up by sliding arms under the younger boy's shoulders and knees and lifting him effortlessly. "That's it, dude. You're off salads for a month. Nothing but lots of empty calories and heartburn in your future." He made his way carefully over to the attic steps.

"Danny!" he called down.

When a shadowy figure holding a silver knife stepped into view, Dean continued. "We're coming down."

Dean carefully maneuvered his brother down the narrow steps and onto the landing below where Danny waited, standing lookout.

"Grab the duffle?" Dean gestured to his shoulder, as Danny obliged.

"Is he okay?" Danny asked, staring down at the younger man, lying motionless in Dean's arms.

"Yeah. He's okay. Just a little out of it. Come on. Let's get the hell out of here. This place gives me the heebies."

"Right behind you." Danny replied.

"Hey, keep that knife ready, 'kay?"

"Yeah."

The small group exited the broken-down farmhouse cautiously, never letting their guards down. They made it to Dean's Impala and to Ron who stood beside it, a matching knife gripped tightly in his fist. He'd seen the trio coming from the moment they'd stepped out the door, and he had the back door open, waiting. He stared at Sam as Dean approached the car and began gently tucking the boy inside it.

"Is Sam okay?" He questioned.

Dean climbed back out. "Yeah, yeah. He's good. Let's get the hell out of here, and we'll meet up back at Sam's apartment." He started to slide behind the wheel, but Ron stayed him with a touch. "No hospital?" he inquired.

"Not unless we have too. No. I took a glance at Sam before I brought him down. I think he'll be fine recovering at your place if you're okay with that?" Dean hoped he was, because no way in hell was he subjecting Sam to another hospital if he didn't have to.

The older man stared at Dean for a moment and then nodded. He stepped back as Dean revved up the Impala, and he and Danny sprinted for his truck.

Dean was anxious to get Sam back to the loft and get him out of those foul clothes and bandaged up, but he crept in behind Ron's truck when it pulled up next to a cluster of trees about a half-mile out. When Danny jumped out, Dean rolled his window down.

"What?"

Danny nodded his head toward the outline of a shiny black car hidden behind the trees. "Sam's car." He explained. "Dad spotted it when we drove past an hour ago. Think he has the keys still?"

Dean looked back at his brother's form stretched across the backseat, seemingly asleep, and made a decision. "Check the front wheel well." he told Danny. "If Sam had a spare, that's where it would be. If not, just leave it. I can hot wire it tomorrow."

Danny grinned, "Hell, I can hot wire it tonight, Dean. See you back at the house."

Dean rolled up his window, "Hunh." he snorted, impressed. "That guy sort of remind you of somebody, Sammy?" He asked. "I bet he has a Metallica collection too, hunh?"

Dean pulled out ahead, but it wasn't long until Ron and Danny caught up to him. The small caravan pulled up in front of the garage around 9 pm, and Dean wasted no time untangling his brother's lanky form from the confines of the back seat and hauling him upstairs. At the top of the steps, Danny already had the door open, and Ron was already inside, making up Sam's bed.

Dean placed his brother gently on the soft quilt and stepped back to remove his own coat and to let Ron and Danny move in for a moment.

Danny sat gingerly down on the side of the bed, "Sam." He whispered. "Sam, you with us?"

"D-Dean?"

"No, it's Danny. Dean's right here too. So is dad."

Sam's eyes opened, "Dad? Dad's here?"

Dean closed his eyes and willed his heart to keep beating.

Danny swallowed, "No Sammy. My dad. Ron. I'm sorry, buddy."

"Ron?"

"Right here, son." Ron answered from the foot of the bed. "I'm right here."

Sam's eyes wandered from Danny to Ron and back again, he smiled sadly. "I thought Dean was here … I - I had a dream. 'bout Dean …" he closed his eyes and swallowed.

"I'm here, Sam." Dean moved forward and sat down in the place Danny had just vacated to make room for him. He picked up his brother's cold hand and rubbed it. "Sammy, I'm here."

Sam's eyes flew open again and centered on Dean, and Dean could tell he was seeing him for the first time all over again.

"Dean?" his eyes welled up instantly. His throat was working but only a choked sound came out."You're here?" he whispered, staring. And then suddenly, he was full-on crying - big, embarrassing sobs that tore his breath away and made his already injured throat scream anew.

"I didn't think you'd come … wouldn't ever find me even if you did. And then, and then you did, except it wasn't you and you were so mad at me, Dean." Sam's eyes became saucers, and he clutched frantically at his brother's sleeve. "Y-you had your .45, and you s-said I was too broken to ever fix."

Dean stared at his brother in horror, suddenly regretting again that he'd finished that blue bastard off so easily.

"You … you put the barrel up under my chin. And you …. and you …" Sam was pleading with Dean.

"Sam …" Dean said, brokenly, shaking his head.

"And you ...laughed." Sam stared at Dean like he was going to throw up, and Dean was sure if he did, he wouldn't be the only one.

Dean gathered his brother up into another hug and rocked him gently. It seemed life these days could never have too many chick moments. "That never happened. Sam. I swear. Those were hallucinations. That blue bastard put in them your head."

Sam sobbed into his brother's shoulder. "I knew. I knew it wasn't real. But, damn. It felt real, Dean. Every time you'd come, and you'd ... do things, and every time I knew it wasn't true - wasn't you. But it just … it hurt so much." More sobs.

Dean cried alongside him, hating the djinn for hurting his baby brother and using his own face to do it.

"It felt so real." Sam whispered, and suddenly went limp.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean shook him gently. He pulled away to look at his brother and found only slack features.

Panic.

"Sam!" He reached desperately for a pulse, and relaxed a bit when he found one - surprisingly strong for all his brother had been through in the past week. He suddenly noticed Ron and Danny hovering, concerned, and he tried to reassure the two men who'd willingly gone into the bowels of hell to help his brother.

"He's okay. Pulse is strong." Dean placed him gently back on the pillows. "I think he's just exhausted." He wasn't sure how to frame his next question.

"Uh, listen," He stammered. "I should probably get him cleaned up now … and."

But Ron just clapped his son on the shoulder and turned to leave. "Right. Well, you know where to find us if you need us, right, son?"

Dean nodded.

"I'll go scare us up some vittles and some clean bedding, and we'll be back over in a bit?" Ron ended the sentence with a question mark, trying not to impede on Dean's time alone with his brother or with Sam's privacy.

Dean nodded again and rose to face the two men. "Hey, uh, thanks …"

Danny smiled, sensing Dean's discomfort. "No worries." He replied. "Sam sort of grows on you, you know?"

Dean nodded, eyes watering.

"We'll be back." Ron added, as the two made their exit and pulled the door closed behind them.

Dean stared down at his little brother in silence, studying every angle, every detail. This time yesterday, he'd been sure that the next time he saw Sam, it would be to bury him. Dean almost couldn't believe that he had Sam back whole - or close enough to it. He had searched for so long, butted up against so many dead ends and so many closed doors that he'd begun to believe today would never come - that maybe he and Sam didn't get a happy ending after all.

He'd given up ever having Sam in his life again, ever hearing his wide-open laughter when he really got going, ever feeling Sam's hand land comfortingly on his shoulder exactly when Dean needed it the most, ever again having the privilege of taking care of his little brother. It had been Dean's job for so long that he had felt completely lost without it - like he'd been forced into early retirement with a fishing pole in his hand when all he really wanted to do was report for active duty.

All that was behind them now like a bad dream, and Dean simply couldn't believe it. He never got happy endings like this - not ones with all the ends tied up neatly in a shiny bow. Not ones where the bad guy died, the good guy lived, and the other guy got his brother back - Dean never got those.

Ever.

And as he began peeling foul clothes off the boy who was the better half of himself, he braced silently for the other shoe that he knew was eventually going to fall.


	20. Bobby on the Way

Bobby had just begun to pace, well actually, had been pacing for a good 40 minutes when his cell finally lit up. He snagged it off the motel nightstand before the end of the first ring.

"Dean, tell me what's going on!"

A shy voice answered, hesitating, "Hey Bobby."

Bobby felt his heart drop into his feet. "Sam?" He dropped weightlessly onto the bed. "Sam, is that you?"

"Yeah, It's me. It's … good to hear your voice."

Suddenly Bobby couldn't speak, "Well hell, boy." he muttered, swallowing repeatedly to avoid the avalanche of emotion that was trying to escape. "It' damn good to hear yours too. You okay? You with Dean?"

"Yeah, Dean's here. Hey Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"I gotta ask you something, okay?" the boy seemed hesitant.

"Sure, yeah, anything, Sam." Bobby replied, perplexed.

"Could I … could I … get your number?" And he giggled.

Bobby didn't think he'd heard correctly. But then he heard a minor struggle on the other end of the line and heard Dean say in exasperation, "Give me the phone and go back to bed, Nancy."

More giggling, Then Dean's voice.

"Hey Bobby."

"Morphine?" The older hunter guessed.

Dean snorted. "You'd think, right? But all I gave him was a couple T3s. I think he's still high on djinn juice."

Bobby felt a relief like he hadn't known in over a year. "So he's okay hunh? You got there in time?"

"We got there in time. Took out one ugly motherfucker and got Sam out. He's doing damned good considering."

"We? So Rufus made it?"

Dean laughed, "No, not Rufus. Long story, Bobby. But I had good back-up. Sam's got a whole posse here on the other end."

Bobby smiled. That sounded just like Sam. Damn, that boy grew on a person. "So I'm a few hours out and headed your way. Need anything?"

"Yeah, actually. Since you're asking. Think you could hit a clinic or two along the way?"

"Can do. Got a list?"

"Well, his neck is pretty messed up. He's walking around here holding his head up with his hands. Maybe one of those collars like they give you when you get whiplash? He's got a hell of a road rash on his back too. Need antibiotics and maybe some stronger painkillers. I have a feeling it's going to get worse at night."

"Sounds doable. I can be there by morning."

"Oh, and Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"Bring pie."

Bobby snorted. "Yeah, I"ll bring the pie. So … the djinn got to him?"

Dean instantly sobered, "Yeah, fed off him multiple times to hear Sam tell it. When I got there, the damn thing was saying its goodbyes like they were old buddies or something. It was close, Bobby." Dean's voice hitched. "It was as close as I ever want to get. We got lucky."

"Well, you never gave up, Dean. That makes all the difference."

"Yeah, I guess. Hey, is there anyone close by that could come take a look at him? I kind of by-passed the local hospital."

"Yeah, let me work my magic."

"Thanks Bobby. Did you want to talk to Sam again?"

Bobby could hear an off-key rendition of "Eye of the Tiger" happening in the background, and he suddenly decided he'd rather catch up in person.

"Uh, that's okay. Tell Sam I'll see him in a few hours." He could hear Dean snickering as he disconnected the call.


	21. Comfort and Joy

Dean sat quietly bedside as the doctor finished her exam. True to his word, Bobby had a contact close by who knew someone who knew someone who knew a doctor who helped hunters, meaning she knew not to ask too many questions.

"I definitely think the cervical neck collar is a good idea, Sam. And I"ll drop by in a few days with a therapeutic pillow too - it will help alleviate pain in the night while you're sleeping. But all in all, I think you're a pretty lucky guy. A neck-stomping could be, and usually is, a whole lot worse." She looked at Dean. "I'm sure it was nothing more than a lucky angle that saved his windpipe if it truly happened the way you described."

She reached out to Bobby for the collar. "So let me show you how to position this so he gets the most benefit." And both Dean and Bobby leaned in to watch.

"That should do it." She finished. "How's that feel, Sam?"

Sam slowly sat up from his prone position and sighed happily at the added support. "It's bulky, but at least I can hold up my own head now." He moved slightly, "Feels a lot better too. Takes away some of the pain."

"How long does he need to wear it?" Dean asked gruffly, leaning in to fuss at Sam's shirt where it had bunched up slightly under the collar.

"We'll see." she said. "I'll stop back by intermittently to see how he's getting along. The main thing is lots of rest. Keep his back nice and clean - that means showers at least twice a day, clean shirts and sheets, and this. She held up a tube of ointment and looked at Dean. "Twice a day, everyday, til it's gone. And if you feel up to it, Sam, a good long soak in the tub on occasion will help with the stiffness."

Sam nodded, and grimaced.

The doctor smiled gently, "And try not to nod. Use your words, Sam. It'll be a whole lot less painful. And speaking of pain," she sighed. "You're in for more than your share for at least the next week. I'm leaving these." She held up a bottle and handed it to Dean. It's a pretty strong painkiller, and he's going to need it. I won't lie to you. It's going to be worse at night. So make sure he gets one before bed and then another exactly 12 hours later. It'll make him a little loopy, but he needs it to help relax the muscles if he's to heal properly."

Dean nodded as she handed him a second bottle. "Antibiotics for the road rash on his hands and back. One a day til they're gone. And make sure someone keeps an eye on the wound on the back of his head. I re-bandaged it, and I'll clean it everytime I stop by, but it'll need daily attention. Got it?"

Dean nodded again.

"Clean it and re-bandage it every day, and apply this - it's an antiseptic."

"Anything else, doc?" Bobby asked.

She stepped into Sam's kitchen to wash her hands. "Just make sure he eats and drinks. Lots of protein - maybe some protein shakes, peanut butter, nuts, meats. He's taking a lot of medication, and he'll get deathly sick if he doesn't eat enough. Besides that, he's underweight and still a little dehydrated, so everything you can get into him is good." She turned to Bobby. "I'll stop back in toward the middle of the week to see how he's doing."

Dean stepped up, "Thanks doc." he said. "Thanks for coming out."

She smiled, "Don't mention it. Just paying it forward. I owe someone who owes someone who owes Bobby here a big dept. Take care, Sam." She called. "You'll be feeling better in no time."

As the doctor made her exit, Bobby and Dean exchanged smiles of relief.

"Well, that went better than I expected." Bobby shared.

"Thank God you got connections, Bobby." Dean agreed. "Exactly how many people owe you favors anyway?"

"Loads, and don't you forget it, boy."

Dean snorted and turned his attention back to the patient. "So." he said.

"So," Sam echoed. "Help me up, Dean. I'm going stir crazy."

"Oh, you're getting up, dude." Dean motioned to the kitchen chair that sat next to the bed. Dean had been keeping vigil from it all night. "Right into this." He retrieved a towel from the bathroom. "I can't take another day of looking at your hairy face. Just cause I call you sasquatch from time to time doesn't mean you need to look the part. This ain't cosplay, Sammy." He rooted around in the bathroom. "Where's your razor?"

Sam briefly considered arguing the point, but truth being told, the beard and mustache were more itchy than anything else, and he had enough discomfort to deal with at the moment.

"Second drawer under the vanity. Shaving cream's in the cabinet."

Dean returned from the bathroom looking victorious with both objects in hand. He took one look at his brother leaning carefully against the headboard of the bed, dwarfed by the bulky collar, and sobered. "You good to sit in the chair, Sam? Cause we can do this lying down, or right where you're at if it's more comfortable."

Sam sighed. "No, the chair is good. It will feel good to move around a little."

"The chair it is. But first … " Dean picked up the bottle of painkillers and shook them. "First we medicate, little brother."

The fact that Sam didn't argue the point like he normally would have just told Dean and Bobby that the pain was already kicking up. On an average day, Sam avoided medication like the plague, hating the spacey feeling it gave him. When the doctor had mentioned feeling loopy, she'd had no idea just how loopy a doped-up Sam Winchester could get. Dean could scarcely wait for the festivities to begin.

They had Sam dosed up and in the chair with Dean studiously clipping away when Danny knocked quietly on the open door. "Hey, Dad sent over some …" He stopped in surprise when he noticed Bobby. "Mr. Winchester?" He asked cautiously.

Bobby snorted and Dean outright guffawed at the thought. "Not hardly, son." Bobby informed him, standing up and holding out a hand. "Name's Singer. Bobby Singer."

"Bobby's our uncle." Sam piped up.

Danny grinned and met Bobby's handshake. "Good to meet you, Sir."

"Nice to meet you too, son. You must be Danny. I've heard all kinds of good things."

"None of it's true. I promise." Danny assured him, turning to Sam. "Dad sent you over some soup, Sammy." He said, holding up a quart jar wrapped in a dish towel. "Homemade, chicken, packed full of good things except it's been strained. So really, it's just broth, but easier for you to get down, we were thinking."

"Looks good." Sam agreed, eying the soup hungrily.

"Well, speaking from experience, Dad's soups are pretty damned amazing, but super hot - volcanic even. So you have to let them cool down for a good twenty minutes to avoid a trip to the ER." He poured a small amount of soup out into a mug to acclimate and set the rest in the fridge.

"And there's groceries," Danny addressed Dean, heading back to the landing and carrying in three bags of goodies. He made one more trip. "And more beer." He winked at Sam. "Although, now that I see that collection of pill bottles, we might have to cut you off for a week or two, Sam."

"Hey," Dean offered. "Patient gets the soup. Big bro gets the beer. It's a win-win, Sammy."

"What am I, chopped liver?" Bobby complained.

"Calm down, old man." Dean offered. "We might share."

Sam suddenly snorted like Dean's one-liner was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. And the other three men in the room exchanged amused glances.

"And we're off." Dean noted. "Everyone keep your hands and feet inside the ride."

"You're so silly, Dean." Sam slurred. "Girl."

"I'm not the girl in this relationship, Sam. You're the girl."

"You're the girl. I'm … Batman."

"You did not just claim Batman status, little brother. I'm Batman. Don't make me kick your sorry ass."

If Dean expected a reply, he was disappointed. Sam's head just began bobbing forward minutely, and Dean realized he had about five minutes left to wrap things up before his brother was down for the count. He quickly retrieved a wet towel and wiped Sam's face clean. He stepped back to admire his work and nodded approvingly. "Hey, little bro. You look like yourself again."

"You're just … jealous." Sam replied sleepily. "You're … old. And cranky."

"Yeah, well you look like you're 12 again. Try getting a girl with that face, Doogie."

" … suck, Dean." Which Dean understood to mean that he sucked.

"It's been said before, Sammy. It's been said before." He grabbed his brother under one arm and coordinated his efforts with Danny, who grabbed Sam's other arm. Together, they moved him carefully back to the bed and propped him against the headboard.

"Don't fade out on me yet, little brother. First, you need soup."

"Soup." Sam repeated, sluggishly. "Hungry."

Danny handed Dean the mug, and Dean dipped a finger in before helping Sam hold it up to his lips. "It's nice and warm, Sam. Going to feel good going down."

Sam nodded as he sipped at the warm soup. Looking around the room, he was overcome with such feelings of comfort and joy that it brought tears to his eyes, and then he had to snort because he realized that he had just plagiarized a Christmas song. But he'd been so uncomfortable for so long that he almost couldn't take in all the emotions running through him.

"Something funny, Sam?" Dean tried hard not to laugh out loud at his brother's goofy antics.

"Comfort 'n joy." Sam muttered. "S'funny."

"You're funny."

"Feel so good now. Comfortable. Felt so bad for so long. Is this real?" He asked Dean, looking over at his brother hopefully.

Dean felt his own eyes grow misty at the question and at the suddenly desperate look on his brother's face. "It's real, Sammy." He said gently. "You're safe. Just rest now, okay? We're not going anywhere."

Sam finished the soup and Dean helped lower him down against the pillows so he could sleep comfortably. Once he was sure Sam was as settled as he could be, he stood up and stretched.

"Somebody say beer?" He asked.

Later, as Dean and Danny and Bobby sat around Sam's kitchen table, drinking and laughing quietly and even reliving the week's events, Dean came to the bizarre realization that he'd never felt happier.


	22. Explanations and Forgiveness

Dean expected nightmares. Nightmares were Sam's old friend, after all. He'd had them almost since Dean was old enough to remember. Anytime somebody got slung up against a tombstone or was forced to spend, say, a week as a djinn smoothie, Sam worked through his fears in the night - his subconscious driving the bus.

So Dean sat on the floor, propped up against the corner of Sam's bed while Sam slept, listening to his little brother breathe and wondering when he was going to get around asking that most important question.

"Why'd you ditch me, Dean?"

And when he did, Dean had no idea how he was going to respond. "I was under a spell, Sam." seemed pretty lame now. This Sam, this new Sam, was strong and independent. He'd been through more than any man anywhere had ever been known to survive. He'd spent a week being slow-sipped by a damned alpha djinn, after all, and had lived to tell the tale. Suddenly, Dean's little hex bag anecdote seemed a tad … anticlimactic.

And Dean felt foolish for falling prey. He cursed himself everyday for letting some nameless, faceless witch call the shots that had led to all this. He still had no idea of the why or the how or the who. He just knew the what - the pain and the fear and the regret - knew because he'd lived with it every day for more than a year. Worse though - Sam had been the one to reap his punishment. Whoever had planted the hex bag had done so to torment Dean, but it was ultimately Sam who'd paid the price, and for that, Dean couldn't forgive himself.

There was still a world of payback coming for someone, and Dean was determined to mete it out. But first he had to find some way to explain his unforgivable actions to his brother.

And he'd sooner take a beating. He'd sooner have his nails yanked out one by one - sooner revisit that waitress from Tampa.

He shuddered.

But when Sam started to stir, and Dean realized his moment of quiet introspection was over, he leaned in to face the boy that he'd happily give his life for ten times over and started the dialogue that he knew could very well end him.

"How ya doin' Sammy?"

Sam's eyes creaked open, and he gazed at Dean sleepily.

"Feel good." He smiled lazily, still under the influence of the high-powered pain killers the doc had prescribed.

Dean grinned, "Yeah? Those're some good drugs, hunh?"

"The best." He paused. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Need to go …"

"Oh, okay." Dean rose to his feet. "I gotcha, little brother. Come here."

Between the two of them, Sam made it to the door of the bathroom before nudging Dean away. "I can go in alone, Dean."

Dean looked unsure, but short of forcing his way inside, he didn't see much of an alternative. "You sure, Sam?"

"Yeah … got this. Honest."

"Well, okay, but I'm hanging right here."

"Gross, Dean." Sam chastised, closing the door.

Dean chuckled. He hadn't heard that word in … well, in over a year.

Afterward, when Sam was tucked comfortably back in bed with an extra pillow behind his head and a glass of orange juice sporting a green straw clutched in his hand, Dean bit the bullet.

Hey Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"How come you haven't … asked me why?"

Silence.

"Why what, Dean?" he answered fuzzily.

"Why I … left." Dean swallowed.

Sam had to think hard to intersect his brother's train of thought, "You mean the motel?"

"Yeah. That."

"Sam shrugged, "Cause I know."

Dean turned to look at his brother. "What?"

"S'mid-life crisis."

Dean blinked. "Sam, I'm twenty-one."

Sam lay back and tossed an arm over his eyes. "That's like … fifty? in Winchester years, right? You know, like … every human year is seven years for dogs? Winchester years … they're probably worse."

Dean nodded at this train of thought, impressed. Sam had a point. Could he ...?

No, he had to come clean. "It wasn't a mid-life crisis, Sam."

Sam shifted to look down at his brother. "It wasn't?"

Dean shook his head, dejectedly, and stared straight back into Sam's eyes sadly.

Sam couldn't quite tell what he saw there, but it made his heart die a little. "You … you meant it?" He asked, voice breaking, hurt all over again. "All that stuff you said about hate ... hating me? Hating having to cook for me and stuff?"

"God, no, Sam." Dean pleaded. "Don't think that. Please don't ever think that, Sammy. I could die ten thousand times over thinking about all the bitchy things I said to you that night. And not a word of it was true. Ever. Not ever, Sam. I swear." Dean knew he wasn't exactly playing fair - broaching the subject when Sam was so obviously out of it, but he couldn't bring himself to wait even a second longer to find out just how much his brother hated him.

Sam stared at him silently, and not - Dean hoped - reproachfully.

"You're probably not gonna believe this," Dean started, laughing nervously.

"What?"

Dean looked up guiltily, "Hex bag." He said simply.

Sam blinked.

Dean cleared his throat. "It was a hex bag, Sam. It … well it … fell … out of the lining of my jacket finally when it got torn. As soon as it hit the floor, the spell was over. I could think again. Bobby tossed it in the fire, and the first thought I had, when I came back to myself, was you. 'Course that was eight months later, sadly."

Sam stared, "A hex bag?"

Dean nodded miserably as Sam's mouthed started to twitch.

"What, Sam?"

But Sam was making little muted noises, and Dean was suddenly worried that he was trying not to cry. He seemed to be having trouble controlling the muscles around his mouth too.

"Sam, are you … are you … laughing?"

Sam snorted then - not muffled, like someone trying to cover up a chuckle - but a full-on snort that sounded equine in nature. And from the snort was quickly born that all-out, nothing held back, roar of a laugh that Dean hadn't heard in more months than he cared to remember.

"Sam?" Dean's mouth twitched. "Sam, dammit. I'm trying to be serious here."

But Sam couldn't do anything more than stare at his brother helplessly, tears streaming down his face, as he gave in to the hilarity of the situation. And as Dean stared back at Sam like he'd lost his damned mind, he felt the first hitch of a giggle rising in his chest. He launched his pillow at his brother's face.

"Dammit, Sam, you little bitch," He snorted, "This isn't funny!"

But once Sam began howling, Dean lost it. Both brothers sat doubled over - one on the bed, one off - helpless in the release that had been thirteen months in the making -waiting for that single moment in time when two brothers would be reunited once again in true Winchester family tradition - one under the influence of heavy drugs and the other, beer.


	23. Late Night Revelations

These nightly chat sessions were becoming the norm. Every night Sam would wake up around 2 am, and every night, Dean was waiting to help him to the bathroom and then back into bed.

And then, if Dean happened to pose a question or two while Sam was still under the influence of the painkiller that acted like every bit of a freaking truth serum, well, that wasn't too sneaky, was it? Sam always remembered their discussions the next morning, and he didn't seem to mind that he'd revealed details that he otherwise might have kept to himself. And Dean even reasoned that their talks were good for Sam, that they were therapeutic, even. He did feel a nudge of guilt that he started his interrogations when Sam seemed physically incapable of lying.

But, what the hell?".

"Hey Sam?"

"What?"

"What was the worst thing that happened to you out on the road?"

Immediate, candid response, "Getting felt up and nearly raped by some gorilla outside a roadhouse in Kankakee."

Dean choked on his beer. "Sammy?"

Sam chuckled, "Relax, Dean. I said nearly. The bartender found me in time. He had a sawed-off, and that was all it took to scare the guy off. I mean, he stalked me for a while after, but once I left town, I never saw him again."

"He fucking stalked you? What do you mean, he stalked you?"

He stole my wallet. It had my time card in it. So he just kept showing up outside the restaurant where I worked and staring at me. When I spotted him outside my apartment one night with two buddies, I just kept driving and never looked back. I don't think I'll hear from him again. I mean, I still have nightmares about it sometimes, and then I wake up and wonder what I'd do if I went downstairs one day and he was waiting for me outside the garage. But deep down, I don't really think he'd go to all that trouble."

Dean swallowed. "Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You can stop worrying about that … thing."

Sam leaned up on an elbow to stare at his brother. "Why?"

"Bobby, and I … we kind of took care of it."

"What! How? How did you even know?"

"We found matchbooks for the roadhouse inside one of your shirt pockets. We talked to the bartender and got the 411. Although I see now that he left out a few details. Oh, and I still have all your stuff from the apartment out in the Impala.

Sam just stared, "Huh." he said, flopping back down. "Well, thanks, I guess."

"No problem."

"Hey Sam?"

"Uh?"

"What was the best thing that happened?"

Sam grinned. "Easy. Road-tripping through two states with the Friends of Jesus in the Chartreuse Microbus."

Dean snorted. "What the hell?"

"Yeeeah," Sam drawled happily. "Those guys knew how to live, you know? They'd named the van after some old trucker song, and Liam played it all the time on his old 8-track tape deck. I probably would have signed on, but one night when they finally passed me the pipe, I ended up getting a little too loose and telling the story of that wendigo hunt we took with dad up in Minnesota." Sam's voice turned melancholy. "When I woke up the next day, I was all alone. The van was gone. That hurt. I missed those guys."

Dean raised up to glare over the side of the bed, "I ever catch you with a pipe, little bro, it will not be pretty."

"Pffft. You don't scare me, Dean." Sam chuckled.

But when all 160 pounds of big brother suddenly landed on him with no warning, Sam was forced to rethink his last remark. "Okay! Okay! He struggled to breathe. "No pipe! Geez, Dean! Fanatical much?" He gasped as Dean rolled off him and returned to his spot on the floor beside the bed.

"You're damn straight, no pipe. No bong, no hookah, and no cigarettes either. Got it?"

"Geez, when did you get to be such a buzz kill, Dean?"

"Since I spent thirteen months as an only child, bitch." Dean answered, only half-jokingly. "It sucked. I don't plan to go there again."

Silence.

"Hey Sam?"

Whaaaat?" Whiny, this time.

"Hey, uh, when I showed up inside your hallucinations, what was I doing? Besides trying to shoot you, that is."

"You always came with the intention of saving me somehow, but somehow, it always went south."

"Like how?"

"Well, like once, you showed up with Dad, but after he examined me and found out how badly I was hurt, he had you hold me down while he beat the shit out of me. You were sort of crouched behind me, holding my shoulders, and you kept whispering in my ear how much better it was to get taken out by family and not by some monster."

Dean wished he hadn't asked.

"And then there was the time you showed up with some African dream root with the intention of going inside my dreams and rescuing me from there. But something went wrong, and when you got inside, you were the guy being held down by the djinn family in the cafeteria. By the time I got them off of you, you had turned into one of them, and you reached out and lit me up like a Christmas tree." Sam snorted.

Dean opened his mouth to speak.

"And then there was the time …"

"Never mind, Sam." Dean interrupted, "I get the general idea."

"You were a bastard, Dean."

"Yeah, so I see."

"But you know what the weird part was?"

"You mean other than me playing '101 Ways to Kill Your Brother?'"

Sam chuckled, "Yeah. But the weird part was that after the first time, I sort of knew somehow that it wasn't really real. And I started to look forward to it."

Dean stared at his brother like he'd misplaced his last marble. "What! Why?"

"Cause I got to see you. And I hadn't seen you in so long. And then every time you'd touch me, it felt real, you know. And I missed that - the way you'd always patch me back up after a hunt or rub my back when I was sick? I didn't even care that you were going to kill me in the end. It was just some time spent with my big bro, you know? I didn't realize how much I missed that til you were back standing in the room with me - even if you did have deadly intentions." Sam sighed and risked a glance at his brother where he sat cross-legged and nursing a beer next to the bed. "It was always good to see you, Dean."

Dean faked taking a swig of his beer to give him time to get his emotions in check. Then he cleared his throat and struggled to his feet. "Gotta drain the pipe." He said tactlessly, and escaped to the bathroom where the man tears could flow unchecked.


	24. Aftershocks

Sam sat at the old barn wood table, flanked by Dean and Danny, taking in the spread that seemed to stretch endlessly before him. Ron sure liked to cook, and once Sam was up and on his feet and around, he and Dean had begun taking their meals in the Ritter kitchen. Today's offerings included chili, baked potatoes and corn bread, and Sam's mouth watered just ogling it all.

So far, it had been a good day, which meant Sam hadn't once suddenly freaked out over nothing. Ever since he'd stopped with the painkillers and the antibiotics and lost the collar that made him feel like a naughty puppy, Sam's recovery had been … eventful. He had a tendency to still see things that weren't there, and his emotions were all over the place. Just yesterday, he'd cried when Danny remarked that he was out of limes. And then, last night when Dean was playing his late night game of twenty questions, Sam had looked over at his brother and seen him sitting there holding a hangman's noose in one hand and a scythe in the other. When Sam had yelled and scrabbled backward on the bed, Dean had instantly moved in, and that just made it all worse.

Sam had backed against the wall and buried his face in his hands, begging Dean not to kill him again - or if he did, to use the scythe and not the noose. Dean had sat staring at Sam like an alien creature had just landed in his brother's body and needed to be captured and studied for science - at least from Sam's point of view. In reality, Dean had nearly wet himself when Sam suddenly began babbling about a noose and a scythe and begging Dean not to kill him again.

So now they knew - Sam had a ways to go before he could be considered okay. He was still having hallucinations, and the part of his brain that controlled emotions seemed to have gone on vacation. And since no one had ever survived repeated feedings from a djinn and lived to record it, there was no lore anywhere to give Dean even an inkling of what to expect next or how to help his brother.

So for the time being, the small, tight-knit group accepted that, eventually, Sam would return to normal. And in the meantime, they all took measures to eliminate invisible threats - like the alligator that had suddenly attacked Sam as he'd stepped off the front porch last week or the hellhound that had stood snarling at him from the roof of the garage yesterday morning.

Ron said grace, and they all began passing platters around and filling plates and bowls.

"Damn, Ron." Dean eyed the cornbread hungrily, "Like to cook much?"

Danny laughed. "Welcome to my world, Dean."

Ron smiled, "I don't see anyone refusing anything, no?"

"Hell no. This is better than any burger joint."

"The chili is amazing." Sam commented, savoring his first taste. "It reminds me a little of Bobby's, but way better."

Dean glanced sideways at his brother. "I'll let you drive Baby for a week if you tell Bobby that."

"Not on your life. I want to keep my arms and legs."

"Dad excels at soupy substances," Danny answered, and then grimaced. "Oh, that did NOT sound good."

Sam snorted. "Gross."

Dean shuddered, "TMI Danny. TMI man."

Ron chuckled. "You boys done having a little fun at the expense of the old man?"

"Neveh!" Danny answered, piling cornbread on his plate. "Oh, did anyone else want any?" He asked innocently.

Sam reached over with his fork and snagged a slice off Danny's plate. "Share, dude."

"For you, Sammy. Only for you." Danny answered absently, then glanced up when Sam didn't come back right away. But Sam had his head down, face pale, swallowing hard.

"Sam, you okay?" Danny asked nonchalantly, trying not to make a big deal of Sam's sudden change in behavior.

Dean looked up then and took in the look on his brother's face. He knew instantly there was something else in the room with them - at least in Sam's mind.

"What is it, Sam?" He asked around a mouthful of potato, "What do you see?"

Sam swallowed and took a breath. He looked up at Dean out of lowered eyes. "N-nothing. I'm good."

Dean knew he was lying, but if Sam wanted to try to shake off this latest vision, he wouldn't interfere.

"So, R-Ron, did you grow these?" Sam gestured to the over-sized potatoes.

Ron played along, "Yep. Grew 'em in the shopping cart out at the Walmart."

Sam laughed, but his hands were shaking, and he was studiously trying to avoid looking anywhere but at his plate.

"Sam," Ron asked, "Do I need to get the shotgun?" Ever since the alligator incident, the three men had discovered the best way to put Sam at ease the quickest was to take an actual shot at whatever the creature-du-jour turned out to be.

"What? No. No. Let's just eat."

Dean passed his brother the salt and pepper. "It's okay, Sam. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real."

Sam nodded and downed another bite of chili, but he had trouble swallowing it.

The table grew quiet as they all felt Sam's discomfort.

"Maybe if you look directly at it and tell it to leave?" Danny suggested kindly.

Sam glanced up at him and closed his eyes tight like he was screwing up his courage. Then he raised his head and stared pointedly just over Dean's shoulder.

"Get away from him." He said pleadingly. "Please? Just leave."

Dean couldn't help it then, he turned to see what Sam could be looking at. "Is that fucker playing with me, Sammy?" He asked, irate.

Sam swallowed hard. "Its … its spike is out." He said softly.

"Wraith?" Dean asked.

Sam closed his eyes and nodded.

In one swift move, Dean picked up his butter knife and stabbed behind him, estimating where the thing's heart should be from where Sam had stared into its eyes.

Sam leaped from the table then with his fork and fell on the invisible thing where Dean had dropped it. He stabbed it repeatedly, months of pent-up frustration breaking loose inside the rustic kitchen as he hacked away at the hateful thing one forkful at a time.

When he was done, he returned to his chair - sweaty and disheveled, and glanced around at the men who sat staring at him in sympathy. He shook his hair out of his eyes determinedly and stabbed his spoon shakily into his chili.

Dean shifted in his seat to study the invisible carnage. "Thank God you brought out the good silver, Ron." he noted, as they all resumed eating.

"I'll sweep that up later." Ron promised.


	25. Epiphany

Ron stared at Dean like he had no idea what the boy was going on about. He glanced at the wad of money clutched in Dean's hand and had to ask him to repeat what he'd just said.

Dean cleared his throat, "Well ... I mean, I know Sammy keeping the room is based on him working for you in the garage. And I mean … he hasn't been able to do that for a while. And now, since he wrenched his neck again the other night, and he's back in the collar, who knows when he'll be able to come back? So I was hoping this might help set things right. If we could just hang on here a little longer, until Sam's okay to travel … I'm just … I'm afraid to move him right now."

Ron smiled, put out his hands in surrender and took a step back. "Dean, when Sam first came here, he was my employee, and we had an agreement - the room in exchange for lower wages. That much is true." He paused.

"But that was a long time ago. Sam's family now. Heck, you're family now. You two boys can have that room for as long as you want it." He got a thoughtful look on his face. "In fact, you two wanna stay over my garage forever? That's perfectly fine with me. Kinda gotten used to havin' you around." His voice got gruff. "Gets lonely all the way out here sometimes, you know? Sure, Danny comes around about every day, but looking out across the yard at night and seeing lights on in that old loft makes a man feel a little less like an island. Am I making sense?"

"No, Dad. You're rambling." Danny intervened from the porch, where he'd just heard the last part of the conversation. "You being an island again?"

"Can it, son." Ron drawled affectionately. "I'm old. I can be anything I want. I've earned the right. Right?" He looked at Dean.

Dean smiled, "Right."

"Of course," Ron started again, "I have heard a bit, on occasion, about your abilities under the hood - if 'on occasion' means nearly every time your brother opens his mouth - and if you ever get a hankering to step in and help me and Danny roll some cars out of here, well, ain't nobody going to turn you away."

Danny interrupted, "I got an old beater out there right now that I could sure use some help on, Dean. Guy wants miracles, and I'm about to put my magic wand someplace he probably wouldn't like."

Dean snorted. "Well, how can I refuse an offer like that?"

"Good!" Danny crowed, slipping an arm around Dean's shoulders and pulling him toward the garage. "Cause he's expecting one of us to call him this morning, and I nominate the new guy." He grinned evilly.

"I'll be out as soon as I get the breakfast casserole in the oven." Ron called behind them, as they drifted away.

Twenty minutes later, he was turning to put the egg bowl in the sink when movement out the window caught his eye. He glanced up to see an irate Sam stalk out of the garage, followed immediately by Dean and Danny - both looking shell-shocked.

"What in the world?" He worried, striding quickly to the door in time to catch the exchange of angry words on the wind.

"... snake my job, Dean?" Sam was asking, angrily. "When were you going to tell me?"

"Sam!" Dean pleaded, "That's not what's happening here."

"Really? Cause when I come down the steps and see you neck-deep under the hood of Mr. Hartford's car, what am I supposed to think? What? The hood just popped up, and you just magically fell in? God forbid we let the crazy guy work on cars, right?"

"Sam …" Danny tried to interrupt, but was silenced by the younger man's glare.

"Don't Danny." Sam warned. "Just don't make excuses for him. Dean's been taking things away from me all his life. It's what he does."

Dean was floored, and it showed. "Sam, when did …?"

But Sam was having no explanations. He cut his brother off coldly. "I'm so sick of living in your shadow, Dean." He turned and strode angrily up to face his brother. "So sick of always being the younger brother - the one who doesn't know as much, who can't do as much. I've spent my whole fucking life trying to grow roots in your shade, Dean, and you know what? I'm sick of it! Do you hear me, big brother?" He suddenly threw a left hook that landed the older boy on the ground. "I'm DONE!"

And with Sam's final words, Dean's epiphany came. He scrambled up off the ground and grabbed his brother by the shoulders. 'Sam! Look at me! What are you feeling right now?"

Sam wrestled away from his brother's grasp. "Dammit, Dean, get off me!"

But Dean was relentless, "You feel annoyed, don't you? You feel like you have to hit something, and you don't know why. You feel like if you have to look at my face or listen to my voice for one more minute, you might do something you'll regret, right?"

Sam stared.

"Right, Sam?" Dean shook him gently. "Tell me!"

"Yeah .. okay. I guess. Whatever you say, Dean."

"Sam, when did this start?"

"What?" Sam growled.

"This feeling … this … this anger. When did you first start feeling it? Do you remember?"

Sam pulled away, 'You've been pissing me off since yesterday, Dean. Is that what you want to know? Well, unless you add in the last 17 years."

Dean looked his brother up and down, thinking. And then he saw it. Dammit, he saw it. "Sam, give me the collar."

"What?" Sam took another step back.

"The collar! Give me the damned collar, Sam!"

"Get away from me! You're crazier than I am!"

But Dean knew. Suddenly, he knew. He stepped forward and, with a single move, ripped the cervical collar right off his brother's neck.

"Dean! Ow! Dammit, that hurt!"

Danny and Ron both took steps forward as if to intervene, "Dean!"

"Wait! Just wait!" Dean muttered, pulling out his knife and drawing it across the fabric of the collar. And when the hex bag fell out, it was like an instant replay in Dean's mind. He saw it lying there on the ground - the source of so much pain and misery - and he just wanted to cry. He wanted to cry for Sam and to cry for himself - to cry for the year of each other's lives they'd lost for nothing.

For nothing more than someone's twisted idea of revenge. He looked up at Sam and could tell that the spell had broken the instant the foul thing hit the ground. His brother looked lost and broken - just like Dean had felt during that long ago moment in Bobby's kitchen.

Tears welled up instantly in his brother's eyes as they met Dean's, and Sam's voice broke, "D-Dean? Dean, what … did I just … hit you?"

"No Sammy." Dean moved forward and met him as Sam literally threw himself into his brother's arms.

"God, Dean! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean any of that!"

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean comforted his grieving brother. "Believe me, I know just how you feel, little brother." He worked his lighter out of his pocket and tossed it to Danny.

"Burn that son of a bitch, please Danny?"

Sam took a step back, "How? Dean? Where did it come from?" He asked, as he watched the hex bag go up in flames under Danny's careful ministrations.

Dean thought back to who'd had access to the collar in the last day and made the connection. "Son of a bitch!"

"What is it, son?" Ron asked gently.

"She came yesterday, didn't she, Sam? She came when I ran to the store. Was she alone with the collar?"

Sam looked at his brother in confusion, "You mean the doc?"

Dean nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, she did. I thought you called her?"

Dean shook his head. "I didn't call her, Sam. But she's been stopping back in all along, remember? As soon as you stopped all the medications, she started showing back up. Right when the hallucinations kicked back up. I thought that was odd, but I just wrote it off as dedication to the job. I mean, she knows Bobby."

Sam thought back. "She brought a new collar. This isn't the one Bobby brought me. She had a new one in the trunk of her car. That's why I thought you'd called her and told her about my accident with the … the werewolf."

Danny looked from one brother to the other, "The lady doc is the witch?" He asked, disbelievingly.

"I guess that explains all the free house calls." Ron noted.

"I will so end her." Dean promised.

And later that night, as his baby brother enjoyed the first restful sleep he'd gotten in weeks, he did.

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Thank you to everyone who is taking the time to read, follow, favorite and especially to comment :) It means more than you know._


	26. On the Occasion of Your 18th Birthday

Sam was blindfolded. He stumbled along the ground carefully, held by gentle hands on either side. When they stopped, he stopped.

Suddenly, his blindfold was whipped away, and Dean was saying, "Here you are, Sammy."

Sam blinked. He was looking at his own car.

"It's … it's my car?" He said slowly.

"Ah, but look inside."

Sam knelt down to get a closer look at the interior and was suddenly stunned.

All three men laughed at his reaction as Dean asked him, "Whaddaya think?"

Sam opened the passenger door reverently and ran his hand gently across the new vintage car seats that had suddenly gotten themselves installed overnight. Miles of black leather felt soft beneath his hand. They looked mint. "Where …" He swallowed hard. "Where did you find these?"

Danny answered. "It was all Dean's idea."

Dean piped up, "Well, it was kind of my idea." He bragged. "I thought we'd get them from Bobby, but apparently these seats are pretty rare. It was Ron who called all over Illinois to find them. And then Bobby helped me pay for them. And then Danny went with me last week in the truck to bring them back and helped me get them installed last night. So this is a present from all of us." He grinned and they all piped up in unison.

"Happy birthday, Sam!"

Sam was silent for so long, taking it all in, that Dean got nervous. "Look, I know you just planned on patching up the ones you had in there, but they were too far gone. We all just didn't have the heart to tell you." He joked. "But you did a really great job on the body and on the engine, Sammy. You really did." He was suddenly serious, "Dad couldn't have done any better."

"Steve McQueen, eat your heart out." Ron agreed.

"His Fastback was green," Sam answered softly.

"Yeah, but if it had been black, imagine how much better." Danny piped up.

"Soooo … you like 'em?" Dean prodded.

"Oh!" Sam pulled himself out of his revery. "Of course I like them! Are you kidding? I love them! They're gorgeous!" He swallowed hard, "Thank you. Thank you all so much."

Later, as Ron toiled away in the kitchen baking pies and after Danny had left on a run to town for beer and more brown sugar, Sam and Dean leaned against the '68 Mustang in comfortable silence, watching the sun go down on what had turned out to be an exceptionally beautiful May day in Illinois. A soft breeze ruffled Sam's hair, and Dean's jacket lay discarded on the front seat.

"Oh! I almost forgot." Dean suddenly interrupted.

Sam looked over, "What?"

"One last birthday present for my little brother. " He smiled, reaching down into the cooler at his feet and handing Sam a beer. "Now I know you had plenty of beers with Danny and Ron before I ever arrived on the scene," He explained. "But this one is special." He winked. "Your first official beer ever with your big bro."

Sam took the beer, raising an eye. He hadn't indulged in an alcoholic beverage since his brother's return, partly because he'd been on medication for most of that time, but also out of respect for his big brother's wishes, too. "You know I'm still underage, right?"

Dean turned to look his brother in the eye. "Sammy, you've been a man since you were 16. I guess you can have a beer or two when you want one." He twisted the top and held his bottle up for a toast. Sam reciprocated.

"To my baby brother on the occasion of his 18th birthday." He offered.

"Sam nodded, smiling, "To me." He agreed, and snorted softly.

Dean took a swig. "Actually, I'm lying."

"What? Why?"

"This is actually more of a present for me, you know." He turned to face his brother.

"I finally listened to those messages, Sam." he confessed. "Of course it was all way too late. But if I had known you were right there at that lodge." His voice cracked. "God, I still think about that every day. And I did notice your baby, you know? She looked like total shit, but it was obvious someone cared about her."

Sam smiled, "It's fine, Dean." He said. "After that … incident … with the collar, I totally get it. Trust me. I do. You would have been there if you could have."

"I would have. And we would have done it up right too - you, new license, new wheels, new weapons." Dean reminisced, "I hate that we missed out on that because of some nameless, faceless witch bent on revenge."

Sam nodded. "It's crazy that she was really after Dad all along, and we just got in the way."

Dean stared off into the distance. "It felt real good telling the bitch that, though." Dean smiled. "That everything she did to us, that she put us through - Dad never knew about any of it." He took a drink. "That was an epic moment." He savored. "Of course, it was short-lived - for her anyway."

"Yeah, well, she earned what was coming to her."

"That she did. I just can't believe she was ever a hunter - that she'd hunted with Dad even - and then turned into one of the things she'd vowed to kill."

"Yeah, that part's crazy."

"And Bobby never knew! Not sure how she pulled that one off. Bobby knows when I get a speeding ticket on the other side of the country."

"She was just that good, I guess." Sam agreed, then paused. "Hey … Dean?"

"Mm?"

"You don't think she had anything to do with … you know … with Dad disappearing?"

Dean shook his head, 'No way." He assured his brother, "She was way too pissed when she got the memo. She was expecting me to run into Dad back at that motel that night, not you. I think she'd had images in her head all this time of all the torment she was causing him. She had no idea that none of her plotting and conniving had impacted him in any way." He lifted his beer to his lips. "That was so sweet - filling her in." He grinned. "That's the one good thing to come out of Dad being missing."

Dean shoulder-butted his brother. "He's coming back, you know." He said steadily. "Wherever he is, he's just caught up in the hunt. You know Dad. He's too stubborn to die easy."

Sam nodded. "I know."

"Good."

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm pretty sure that's pie I smell coming from the kitchen. Ron does know that pie's my thing and not yours, right? I was expecting a table full of salad and … other … green stuff." He shuddered.

Sam smiled, "Well, he did ask me what I wanted."

"Right," Dean narrowed his eyes "So again, why pie?"

"Cause maybe I said I wanted to treat my big brother to pie on my birthday? I mean, you did rescue me from a djinn and all."

Dean snorted, trying to sound tough. But inside, he melted like marshmallows in the sun. God, he'd missed this kid so much. "Sammy, you little bitch. You know I'm not sharing."

Sam smiled, understanding what his brother couldn't say. "You'll share."

"No, I won't will."

"Yes, you will … jerk."

"You're so not getting any of my pie, bitch."

Then Danny pulled up in the truck with the beer, and Ron called "Soup's on!" from the window, and all was right in the Winchester world.

At least until it wasn't again.

-END-

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Again, a huge thanks to everyone who hung in there until the end. I appreciate all the feedback, and suggestions and the fact that nobody, anywhere, felt the need to point out my many typos :) This has been such a fun adventure, and I can't wait to embark on the next one._


	27. Alternate Reunion Scene

_**Author's Note:**_ _Before "The Last Time I Saw Sammy" got hijacked by djinn, I wrote an alternate reunion scene. This is how it played out as Dean landed randomly one night at a bar on the outskirts of Benton, Ill. The bar was called Bixby's._

As Dean sat at the bar, he felt hard edges beginning to soften – the constant tension that he'd felt for what seemed like an eternity fading to gray.

He caught the bartender's eye and ordered a beer. Then he sank down onto a bar stool and let his eyes drift closed for just a moment, basking in the memories of better days and better times - back before everything had gone to total hell.

Someone jostled him on the left. "Sorry man," A college kid said good naturedly, as he leaned back into his girl, and they faded jovially away into the crowd.

The music and the mood were elixirs to Dean's weary soul, and he lifted the bottle to his lips and looked around. It was dark just like every other bar he'd ever frequently, but as his eyes adjusted, he could still make out the main characters in the play.

There was a group of college kids taking over three tables in the middle of the room, laughing too loud and trying too hard to be noticed. And by the pool table, two grizzled third-shifters nursed mugs of draft and cued up over significant beer bellies. Dean noticed the usual cast of single ladies on the prowl and had to laugh and look away when three high-school-aged boys got turned back at the door.

"Ah, here's to virgin livers." Dean said quietly, tipping his beer at no one in particular and swallowing it down like the professional he was. He was on his second beer when the group at the corner table caught his eye, and suddenly he couldn't look away.

It was an older man with what was obviously his two grown sons. The boys had their backs to Dean, but they sat close and comfortable like only brothers would, and suddenly a sense of loss, deep like a canyon, broke over Dean. And he had to swallow hard to keep from sobbing out loud as the small family that could have once been his own broke into sudden loud laughter over something the taller boy said.

Dean watched the drama play out with his heart on his sleeve. The older boy shoulder-butted the younger one, almost knocking him out of the booth, and the father raised his beer and winked at his boys. Damn. Dean missed that sort of interaction so much. In another lifetime, it could have been Dean tormenting Sammy and the great John Winchester who saluted their antics.

Dean had never had the opportunity to drink a beer with his little brother though, like these boys seemed to take for granted. And maybe he never would. He wondered if they even realized how lucky they were to have each other.

When the family finally stood up to make its way over to the pool table, Dean ordered another beer and let his eyes drift closed. He caught the snippets of disjointed conversations as they swirled around him.

" … SUCH a bitch…"

"… said, so that's never going to happen."

"… did what?"

"…failed it, man, know I did …"

"Three over here."

Sudden cheers from the area of the dart board, and Dean smiled, eyes still closed, lost in his own memories.

"… hell, you know it …"

" …cute. Horny too …"

"… graduation, won't it?"

"Will never get over it. Never. What the hell was he …"

" … ammy Winchester. Ha! ha! The one and only …"

"… loser, lover … whatever …"

"… ucking lost it, man … so screwed …"

Words penetrated the fog in Dean's mind, causing a knot to form in his stomach. What had he just heard?

Dean sat up and looked around him, instantly sober, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Winchester.

He'd heard the name Winchester.

His eyes searched the bar, falling inexplicably again on the family of three that was now taking turns at the dart board. The dad held a bottle in one hand and rested his other easily on the older boy's shoulder. The younger kid – the tall one – stood with his back to Dean, tossing darts that easily fell one on top of the other, square in the dead center of the target.

"Ohhhhhh!" The trio erupted as the younger boy finished his turn and took a major back thumping from his father. There was something awfully familiar about him, and Dean couldn't quite pin it down.

Then the boy turned toward Dean to snag his beer off the corner of the pool table, and he grinned and ducked his head. He was blushing from the attention, and for a brief moment in time, Dean couldn't catch his breath.

The older boy grabbed Sam's arm then and raised it triumphantly over his head, " … Deuce Winchester, everyone! Undefeated dart champion and total ladies' man! And the crowd goes CRAZY! Ahhhh!"

Dean watched as Sam shook his head and pushed the older boy away affectionately. Then Sam caught the bartender's eye and held up three fingers like he'd been ordering beers for three for years.

Dean was fascinated, staring at the scene as it played out before him – the beers arriving -Sam reaching into his pocket and peeling six bills off the top and laying them on the tray – the smile at the waitress as he grabbed the three bottles – the handing off of the bottles to the other boy and the dad – the flash of pride in the older man's eyes as he accepted the beer – and the playful ruffling of Sam's hair by the older boy.

Dean felt himself slide down from the barstool in a surreal sort of way, trembling legs propelling him forward in a shaky gate. He navigated the space between them without seeing any of it, tunnel vision stopping at the edge of the pool table where Sam leaned with his back facing the room.

"Sammy …"Dean's voice, sounding cracked and broken.

Sam turning around then, recognizing the voice even before his mind verified it, eyes landing on Dean and freezing - going wide. His beer sliding silently from his hand, crashing to the floor and splashing up to stain both their jeans.

Then Dean pushing forward and hanging onto his brother like he could never let go again, his voice sobbing, words breaking. "Sammy, I've looked so long I've looked for you everywhere on every corner in every damned diner oh God Sammy I'm so sorry."

Sam huddling, shocked and silent, on Dean's shoulder.

"I tried to call, Sam. I've been calling and calling but the damned phone is gone and I searched for you all over Kankakee and I listen to that damn park bench bender message every night and every night I hate myself all over again." Dean pulled back and looked his brother in the eyes, "It wasn't me, Sammy I swear it wasn't." He pulled him close again, "It wasn't me I'm so sorry."

Sam couldn't talk. All he could do was hold on, eyes shut tight, too choked up to even try to find words to say.

"You must be Dean," A soft voice broke through the torrential flow of emotions spewing forth in a dark corner of the dark barroom.

Dean's eyes opened and he found the eyes of the older boy staring at him gently, a smile on his face. He knew he should break the embrace and acknowledge the other boy, but he just nodded brokenly and pulled Sam closer, burying his face in his brother's shoulder and sobbing shamelessly. "I got you, Sammy. I swear to God, I got you now. I'm never gonna lose you again."

"Dean," Sam finally spoke into his brother's coat, throat working hard to make the right noises.

"Dean, I never thought I'd ever ..." He said gruffly, voice choked with unshed tears. "I wanted to see you … to … to say I was sorry. To hear your voice just one more time. Dean, I didn't think you …" He stopped, too overcome to speak.

"All this time, I've been looking, Sam. I swear. As soon as I could, I started looking. You just disappeared. No one knew anything. I didn't know if you were in another town or at the bottom of a damned river. I was ready to give up hope. Didn't think I'd ever see this moment. Never hear you call me a jerk again. Never drink that beer with my little brother. But you're all grown up, now. And I missed it." Dean's voice broke all over again. "I missed a whole lifetime, Sam."

Sam swallowed, "It was a year, Dean. Just a year. And you're back now …" Sam had to stop at that, his emotions welling up and out. He buried his face in the familiar leather jacket. "You're back now, Dean. I missed you so much."

Sam, suddenly pulling back, and grinning through tears, 'I'm buying you a beer, big brother." He said. "But first you gotta meet some people. He swiped a sleeve across his tear-streaked face.

Dean didn't want to meet Sam's surrogate family – the ones who had obviously taken him in and cared for him when Dean wouldn't. What must they think of him? Dean was sure they hated him for hurting the boy … the man … they obviously thought of as one of their own.

"Dean, this is Ron." Sam said, presenting the oldest member of the group. "Ron, this is my big brother, Dean."

Dean looked up into friendly eyes that shone a little too brightly. "Dean," the older man nodded. "It's an honor to finally meet you, son." He held out his hand.

Dean blankly shook Ron's hand and nodded and let himself be steered toward the older boy. "Dean,this is Danny. Danny – Dean."

Danny smiled. "Hello Dean. I've heard so much about you. It's good to finally put a face to the name." Another hand shake.

Dean searched the boy's face for an insult, but he looked nothing but genuine. Somehow, this family knew who he was and they managed not to hate him anyway. And Dean had no idea how that could be.


End file.
